Redemption Days
by kalabangsilver
Summary: A collection of behind-the-scenes pieces, from Ruth's POV, centering around her character development and her canon relationship with Harry. Starts season 4 and should continue, chronologically, right through to season 10.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N – This little fic should be a collection of behind-the-scenes pieces, from Ruth's POV, centring around her character development and her canon relationship with Harry. First chapter set in season 4 between episode 2 and 3 and the rest follow chronologically on from there, right through to season 10. I've rated this T for language and subject matter in later chapters but rating may change as I go along. I have not decided yet. _

_All comments/criticisms welcome. _

_Silver._

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_Redemption Days_

_Chapter 1 _

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It was the first time she laughed, after Danny died, that caused Ruth to break.

One minute, everything was fine. They were all on the Grid, in the calm after the storm. Another plot had been foiled, another terrorist put away and the team were celebrating. Gathered around Adam Carter's station, they were watching their Section Chief miming a slow-dance with the newest recruit, Zafar Younis. Everyone was laughing. Adam's Fiona had tears streaming down her face, her shoulders shaking with the force of her mirth. Presumably, the story her husband was telling was one she had already heard before, because she began laughing before Adam even hit the punch-lines.

Sitting next to Fiona, Malcolm was trying his very best not to look too tickled by the scene. He was always the voice of reason, the calming influence. Whenever Colin was on leave, Ruth noted, he grew a little more sombre. It was nice to see his mouth twitching into a smile again. There were a few more staff members hanging around too. A new junior analyst who Ruth barely knew, a young officer from another of the Section D teams and the girl who fetched their files from records; all were smiling and listening raptly. Adam was a good story teller.

As the analyst asked what happened next, Adam seized Zaf by the shoulders, transforming him (in his role of visual aide) from a beautiful Russian counterpart, to the pillar of the Syrian embassy. The mixture of confusion and acceptance on the younger man's face drew the chuckle from Ruth's throat. As she heard herself laugh, however, and think that Danny would appreciate the joke, the guilt came flooding in.

It was awful. The second she remembered that he was dead and would never laugh again seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Ruth froze, the smile fading from her lips, a sudden cold spreading through her chest. It was like panic, but laced with a strange hopelessness. Her heart beat faster, her chest felt tight and her throat suddenly dry. She swallowed, repeatedly, but it did nothing to quell the feeling and suddenly she was desperate to escape. She should not be here, she should not be laughing and celebrating a mission well done, not when Danny could not laugh again. Not when Danny was dead.

Sweet, sensitive Danny. Ruth had known him better than she knew any of her other colleagues. After Zoe had left, he had sought her company more often. She had grown very fond of him, over the last few months. He was a good boy, but still a boy in many ways. He was secretive and sarcastic, but underneath there was a solid strength about him. He was loyal and good – unendingly good. The way he had died told her that. Protecting. Defending. On her first day back on the Grid, Ruth had read Fiona Carter's first hand report of the incident. He had died a hero and so bravely, far braver than Ruth could ever be.

Turning from the others, Ruth had walked surreptitiously away, disguising her movements as making for the water cooler. She did not want to draw attention to the fact that her eyes were suddenly over-bright, or that her breathing was a little quickened. They were laughing, celebrating their victory today, and she did not want to be the one to ruin it. She did not want to be the one to bring back the bad memories, in a moment where her colleagues were revelling in the good.

The truth was, her reaction had caught her rather by surprise. After Danny's death, they had precious little time to grieve. His funeral had been interrupted by terror and the team and had been plunged immediately into battle. They had no choice, at the time. The job was what it was and it stopped for no man – good spook or not. Harry had sat beside her and told her that there would be a time to grieve, that it was not this time, and so Ruth had gone back to work. After one more threat had been buried, however, they had all gone back to their homes and mourned privately. Ruth had mourned. for the most part, without tears.

Try as she might, she could not work up a single one. Her chest tightened, her soul ached, but she had not cried since seeing Danny's young body laid out on that ambulance gurney. She felt numb and was so terrified of becoming number. Maybe that was all of their fates, she thought, leaning against the wall, fingers digging into the unyielding plaster. Maybe after a couple more years here, she would be numb too and she would stop believing in miracles and the inherent good of humanity. Maybe, in a few years, she would be dead like the others. They lost a few people a year here, after all. Maybe she was next. Numb then dead – the spook way.

Concentrating on trying to control her quickening breaths, Ruth did not notice her boss's soft footfalls until he was nearly beside her.

His voice caught her, though.

"Ruth?"

Startled, she turned on the spot, swaying slightly as she let go of the wall's support. Harry Pearce was standing just a foot or two away, presumably having just emerged from his office. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, he looked like he might be about to head home for the night. He was very quiet, Ruth mused to herself, as she appraised him from her distance. Usually his footfalls were more of an announcement. Then again, she supposed she probably shouldn't be surprised that he could be quiet when he wanted to be. A spook of Harry's calibre, who had been doing it since she was a silly teenage girl, was bound to be able to sneak around when it suited him. No doubt his quietness it had saved him countless times in the past. Or been the downfall of others, she added, to herself.

Fighting the urge to make some excuse for her being separate from the mirthful team, with her eyes bloodshot and teary, Ruth mumbled his name in greeting.

"Harry."

Her boss watched her stoically for a few seconds then, catching her again by surprise, leant against the table beside her, heaving a little sigh.

"I see Mr Younis is settling in," he said, nodding towards the team.

Ruth felt a rush of gratitude. He wasn't going to call her on her tears or her strange behaviour. He wasn't going to ask if she was fine. Glad that he had provided a subject to talk about, rather than her rather woeful appearance, Ruth nodded, turning to mirror his position and watch the others, too.

"I think it helps, him knowing Adam from Six," she said, sniffing and clearing her throat softly. Her heart rate was still thudding in her ears but at least, now, her breaths were not coming so fast. Just calm down, be professional, Ruth chided herself. "The environment can be quite intimidating, to a complete newcomer," she added, speaking from personal experience.

Her boss's eyes flickered over to her then away, very quickly.

Ruth got the vague impression that dealing with slightly over-emotional female employees might not be one of the great Harry Pearce's strongest suites.

"I think you're right," he eventually spoke, thankfully still on the topic of work. "Apparently we are a close-knit and exclusive unit, somewhat dismissive to outside influence." He sounded like he was quoting that last part.

"Our illustrious service psychologist?" Ruth asked.

A small smile curled his lips.

"Indeed."

They continued to stand and lean, respectively, watching as Adam reached the crux of his tale. Ruth could not hear all of it but, from the sound effects and bad miming – it was something to do with automatic weaponry. As they watched, her breathing slowly returned to normal. The tightness in her chest began to slacken, slightly, letting more air in. Perhaps because there was more oxygen reaching her brain, Ruth felt able to think more clearly. When her mind fell back to Danny, this time, it was not to the terrible panic which had filled her before. Instead, it was to dull regret and terrible sadness. And, strangely enough, though she felt better, one or two hot tears suddenly slid from her eyes, down her cheeks.

To her side, Harry shifted, slightly. It was not until Ruth glanced back at him that she realised it was to reach for a tissue, from the box near the cooler. Half humiliated, half grateful, she accepted as he held it out to her – still not saying a word. They stood together for a little while longer, until Ruth's tears slowly stopped and she could breathe through the strange calm that they left. Across the room, Adam Carter persisted in his tale, Zaf now taking part fully, Fiona heckling from the side. Another young officer had paused, in his journey across the Grid, to watch. There was a draw to a gathering, Ruth mused, watching the assembled were laughing and chipping in with comments of their own, from the side.

She gave a soft sniff.

"You know," Harry said softly, at Ruth's side, "I'm almost certain that Mr Carter did not take down that FSB hit squad single handedly." His voice was purposefully shrewd. When Ruth turned her face to him, she saw he was watching the scene with a furrowed brow, arms crossed over his chest. "In fact, I believe a great deal of this story has been subject to poetic licence."

A soft rush of laughter escaped Ruth's chest, her lips quickly forming a smile to match. It was relief, strange relief, to smile after crying. It felt like renewal, in some small way. Though she still felt just a little bit guilty. As she laughed, Harry turned his attention to her properly, taking in her reddened eyes and tearful expression for the first time.

"Not such a terrible charade that it should send you over here, however," he prodded the subject delicately, with all the reserve that Ruth had come to expect.

There was something almost outdated about Harry Pearce. Ruth often thought that he had been born a few centuries too late. He belonged in a time where wars were fought across battlefields by men who were there to fight them. He belonged in a time where there was chivalry and honour. Yet here he was, doing not too terrible a job at surviving the twenty-first century. The thought almost drew another laugh to her lips, but she held herself back. He had asked – in his own polite, delicate way – what was wrong. He deserved an answer.

"I was thirsty," she tried, first, but Harry just glanced at the water cooler and answered shrewdly,

"Then why haven't you had a drink?"

The first impulse Ruth felt was annoyance at his perceptiveness, but it was quickly replaced by a grudging pleasure that he was choosing to perceive at all. She had so few people to talk to, about this. And she needed to talk. She really did. Even if he was her boss and this was bound to be awkward, afterwards.

"It just felt strange, to be laughing," she admitted, with a sigh. A frown tightened her forehead momentarily. "After... everything."

"Danny?" Harry asked, acutely insightful again.

There was a strange edge to his gaze, though, this time – one Ruth had not seen before. It was something cautious, yet gentle, which she could not entirely place. Could it possibly be empathy? No, certainly not. Not from a man such as Harry Pearce.

Ruth turned her eyes quickly back ahead.

Harry had been a fixture in Section D since before they moved to Thames House as their headquarters. He was infamous, throughout security circles, as being hot-headed, mildly disestablishmentarian, and a cold hearted bastard. He was not cold hearted, of course. Ruth had learned that within a few weeks of knowing him. The facade of cool indifference he usually wore was a good one, however. She had only seen it slip once or twice before and never for her. They had become friendlier since he had asked her to help him prepare for that job interview – (the one she was fairly sure he threw, so he could remain in his current position in Section D) – but they had never really been ones for just talking. Probably, because Ruth did not give them the chance. At the back of her mind, she was always aware that there was something about Harry that she liked a little _too much_ and, if she was to let herself get carried away with this, the slight crush she was harbouring for him might develop into something infinitely more dangerous.

"Danny," Ruth confirmed, softly, keeping her eyes straight ahead, trying to ignore the fact that Harry Pearce was looking at her with what appeared to be genuine concern. He probably just doesn't want this to turn into a messy public breakdown, she told herself, stop being such an idiot and focus. This was not about her, or her charismatic boss. It was about Danny. "I miss him," she admitted, softly, not quite meeting his hazel eyes. And they were hazel, she noticed, with a soft sigh. Before, she had always assumed they were a mid-brown but, up close, they were definitely a dark hazel.

"He should be missed," Harry replied, softly, lowering his gaze to his hands. "He was a good officer."

"And a good man," Ruth added, a little forcefully. She was not letting her boss relegate this to the strictly professional, in that way he did so well.

"And a good man," Harry conceded, adding, after a short pause, "far too young to die."

Ruth's chest felt momentarily constricted again.

"I felt so guilty," she admitted, biting at the inside of her lower lip.

Harry's eyes swept over her intently.

"We should never feel guilty for surviving, Ruth."

"No," she shook her head, "not for surviving. Danny wouldn't have wanted that. You know what he did, to save Fiona." Swallowing back a lump in her throat, Ruth pushed on. "I just... I feel like I should be taking the time to grieve for him properly, yet here I am, laughing with the rest of them. You know, I-," She paused again, realising she was about to divulge something quite intimate to Harry Pearce – head of Section D, product of MI5's darkest training programs, killer, liar, _spy_. This was a stupid idea, she pointed out to herself, unnecessarily. She continued, anyway. "I still haven't cried for him properly, since he was buried."

Harry frowned a little, clearing his throat – a nervous habit of his own, that Ruth had noticed from her increasingly frequent staring sessions.

"Grieving does not necessarily have to mean tears," he eventually stated, somewhat carefully. His gaze was thoughtful, eyes very light as he looked up at her. "It is a process, not a state of being, and it's complicated. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance... some days you cry, some days you remember."

Spoken like a man who had had ample practice, Ruth thought, to herself. But who did the great and fearsome Harry Pearce grieve for? His lost colleagues, his lost friends, his long-ruined family and wife? Her cheeks flushed a little and she reprimanded herself for thinking that. Whatever Harry had lost was his personal business, not hers. She might watch him in a somewhat creepy manner, across the Grid, but that did not give her rights to speculate about him. He was not hers, in any way. He belonged to the service. As did she. That was all the link they had. That and a flicker of empathy in his eyes.

"I feel guilty for celebrating, after what happened," she admitted.

"You have to celebrate."

Ruth frowned, raising an eyebrow as she glanced over at Adam then back to Harry.

"All right, in your own way," her boss conceded, with the nod of his head. "Maybe not prancing around, telling hyperbolic stories to your junior officers, like Mr Carter, but you have to find some way to celebrate the victories. Otherwise, the defeats will eat you alive."

He had ample practice in that department, too, Ruth expected. The insight he was hand-feeding her was borne from the age between them as much as the gap in experience. He had been a spook for a very long time, she thought. How many colleagues and friends had he buried?

Very cautiously, she asked him.

Harry replied "eighteen" without hesitation.

A high cost, Ruth noted, dropping her eyes to the tissue she was folding, in her hands. Her boss shifted beside her, pushing off the table, stepping a little over until he was standing between her and the scene across the Grid, to where Adam was still holding court.

"And I still feel guilty, for every single one," he told her, with terrifying sincerity, "but there are too many bad days not to celebrate the good. Today, the thing we were fighting was defeated and we saved hundreds of lives. Nobody died. Today, we are the lucky ones. We won't always be. So many days, the bad will outweigh the good, so we have to make the most of these. Celebrate," he urged her, softly, slipping his hands into his pockets. His hazel eyes were so very hazel. Ruth could not believe she ever thought they were plain brown. Up close, they glimmered with light. "Find redemption in the good, when it comes your way," he told her.

Ruth looked back over at Adam and the team. Harry's words had felt like permission and her shoulders felt lighter, for hearing them. Suddenly, she wanted to be surrounded by them again. Maybe just for a short time, then she would go home. Curl up in bed and not push away the memories. Think of Danny and Zoe and the others and let them fill her mind, before letting them go. Maybe they would not haunt her nightmares if she let them roam while she was awake. If they threatened, she could think of the living instead; Adam and his laughter, Malcolm and his serious eyes, Fiona and her easy confidence, the flirty new boy, Zaf, all of the others she saw every day... and Harry.

He looked so serious, watching her from a few feet away – so strong behind the wash of weariness that he wore, this late in the evening. He had been here for years, Ruth reminded herself, and she could not imagine him ever not being. He was Harry Pearce, defender, protector, leader, the centre of their confusing and constantly shifting world.

"You won't come over, will you?" she asked, motioning over at the team.

Harry shook his head.

"That's not my place."

No. Of course not, Ruth reminded herself. He was the boss.

Her eyes flicked over to the glass wall of his office. "I suppose that means your place is in there."

"Yes," Harry nodded then added, with a wry smile, "with all my paperwork."

"So where do you find your redemption?"

The question sort of spilled out before Ruth could stop herself. It was only in retrospect that she realised it was actually quite personal.

For a second, once she had realised, she considered covering it up, apologising and excusing him from having to answer. The flash in Harry's eyes, however, rooted her to the spot. His eyes grew suddenly dark, his pupils wide. There was something else different in them, too, thought Ruth. Or maybe that was just a change in his face. At first, Ruth thought it was anger but, reading deeper – into the lines along his brow, in the tightness in his upper face – she found something else instead. Heat, loneliness and hunger. It was longing, Ruth realised, with a strange turn of her stomach. His expression was one of longing. As suddenly as it had flickered over him, however, it was gone, replaced by calm serenity.

"Where I can," he answered, softly.

Ruth felt her cheeks heat.

"Oh,"

They stood, staring at each other, Ruth strangely aware of the fact that – underneath what they were at work, underneath the titles that bound them – they were both just human beings. His heart beat like hers. He was filled with the same needs, the same desires. She had to stop this, she told herself forcefully. She would never be able to work at full capacity if she started hopelessly crushing on her boss. It was not seemly, anyway. She should have more self-respect than lusting after a man who would never look at her twice.

But he had looked twice, the little voice in the back of her head spoke up. Just there, watching her from a few feet away, he had definitely been looking twice. Longing. Lonely. This was a redemption day, maybe she should celebrate. Ask him for a drink, Ruth dared herself, swallowing hard. Ask him for more, she suggested, shifting from foot to foot, pretending that her mind was not loitering on what it was loitering on. When the silence between them grew too loaded, she forced herself to speak again.

"Well," she mumbled, her eyes flickering up to Harry's again, then down, "if you ever need to talk..." she let the invitation drift off, immensely glad when Harry answered it with a simple nod, not meeting her eyes for too long. It gave her space to breathe.

"Thank you."

It was the first time Ruth had known her strange attraction was reciprocal. Before now, she had watched him across the Grid and Harry had rather kindly ignored it, except for once or twice.

'_I didn't know I paced, Ruth'_; that comment still made her flush. At the time, Ruth had been rooted to the ground with nerves because she thought his gentle joke had unintentionally hit too close to the bone. In retrospect, however, she realised it might not have been so unintentional. Harry's eyes had darkened, then, just as they had darkened now. It was so subtle Ruth couldn't call it a flirt, but there was something there. So, perhaps she was not so far from his taste after all... Not that it mattered, she reminded herself forcefully. He was her boss. They couldn't. Ever. Besides, Harry had a reputation. He would probably flirt with anything within a twenty-year age range, with two legs and a beating pulse. She shouldn't take it too personally. However much she wanted to.

Oh, this was ridiculous, Ruth told herself, forcing herself to stand up a little straighter and pull on a semi-competent expression. This was just a minor infatuation, on her part – nothing serious. She spent most of her time, these days, at work. It was only logical, therefore, that she formed attachments with her colleagues. This was just a passing fancy, she told herself, something she would get over and grow out of like all of her previous crushes. She respected and trusted Harry. This new obsession she had built, around him, was just the product of that and adrenaline. That, and a little sexual attraction. Just a little, though. She would get over it soon. Hopefully before his stares actually succeeded in turning her insides to molten goo.

"I should, um," she started, trying to think up some excuse or another, but Harry just nodded curtly.

"Don't work too late," he warned her, amiably. The heat in his eyes had faded back, his pupils returning to a natural state. He looked a little tired.

A little rush of disappointment thrilled through Ruth's belly, but she forced herself to reply.

"And celebrate. I remember," she assured him.

Harry gave her a brief smile, the sort Ruth had seen him occasionally bestow on Adam, the only member of the team he was really friendly with.

"Pearls of wisdom," he joked, lightly.

"Part of being the boss," she offered, back.

"I'm a bit of a terrible boss, at the moment," he admitted, nodding backwards towards his office. "That paperwork is to do with staff holiday requests. I'm afraid I've not figured out any of it, yet."

Typical, thought Ruth, but couldn't resist offering to help.

"If you need someone to help go through it, I'm free," she told him.

Harry shook his head. "No. Go home, or go for a drink with the rest of them. Get some rest."

"Are you sure? I don't mind hanging on for a while longer."

"I'm sure. Besides," Harry lifted his eyes to hers, just a little warmth there, again, "I can't risk management finding out there are personnel, down here, more efficient at my position than I am. I have too many enemies to survive that – I would be out of a job by morning."

Ruth smiled, properly this time.

"Oh, I don't know. I think you've got a few fans, too."

Electricity fizzled, briefly, again, hanging in the air. Ruth's stomach both sank with nerves and twisted with pleasure at what she had inadvertently implied. Harry was watching her, thoughtfully. Both of them seemed to realise, however, that her words had taken them into territory that was a little too warm for the professional. Leaning against the foot furthest away from her, then, Harry shifted his weight back, signifying the end of the conversation. Ruth bit at her lip again, looking away.

"Right, well, I'd better..." he began.

"And I should..." Ruth nodded, towards the team.

"Yes. Of course."

"Good."

They faltered for another second or two then Harry stepped off first, making his way back the way he had come, towards his office. They did not say goodbye because they never did. They never went more than a day or two without seeing one another. Usually, it was not more than ten hours or so and, during those, they were asleep. Their waking hours were spent together. Or close by, at least.

Ruth knew she would be in bright and early tomorrow morning. And she knew that Harry would be there around the same time, if not before. She prized those early and late moments, when it was just the pair of them on the Grid. It was harder to watch him without him noticing, of course, but it was more rewarding. With less staff on, he was more off-guard. He let slip all the little things; the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose, when he was stressed, the way he muttered notes aloud as he read them off the reports, the way he jiggled his foot when he typed. She liked the little things. She liked Harry, too... Quite a bit more than she should...

Harry glanced back, giving her another half-smile before disappearing into his office.

Ruth swallowed hard. She liked him a lot, she realised, with a nervous twist of her stomach. What was once a spark was now heat, burning low in her belly, and the change was a recent development. Somehow, in the last ten minutes or so, her girlish crush on her boss had developed into full-blown infatuation. Perhaps it was because she had seen a little more emotion, simmering in his eyes, Ruth thought. Or, perhaps, it was simply because he had offered his hand in comfort. For whatever reason, Ruth knew that it was seriously more than she should feel for him. This was not professional. This was going to be a problem.

No, Ruth corrected herself, this would only be a problem if Harry found out. If he didn't, then things would not get awkward. If she just kept this to herself, revelled in it only when she was off the clock, then it could not possibly be a problem. Harry probably had no idea. She had been ditsy and silly since she arrived here, Ruth reasoned, he could not possibly know that things had changed. For once, being characteristically awkward was going to be a benefit to her.

Turning from the water cooler, she made her way back over to the team. Adam had finished his story and was being gently berated by Fiona. Zaf was chatting to the two younger officers and Malcolm was talking shop with the admin girl. Ruth chose to make her way over to her oldest colleague – not quite feeling ready for the younger ones' exuberance.

"Hello," she greeted him, softly, moving to sit against the edge of the desk they were standing around. "Adam won the day, then?"

Malcolm glanced over at their Section Chief.

"Of course." He signed a form, handing it over to the admin girl, who thanked him and padded away, then turned to Ruth. The pair smiled. "How's Harry?" he asked, catching Ruth by surprise. She had not known he was watching them.

Her cheeks flushed very slightly, heating across her nose, down the nape of her neck, across her chest. Hoping that Malcolm would not notice, or not attribute it to what she was thinking, she cleared her throat and answered quickly.

"He seems fine," she gave a little shrug. "I think he's very busy at the moment."

Malcolm looked over to the office.

"He can't be that busy," he told her. "I don't think I've seen him leave his office, barring national emergency, before every last shred of paperwork is off his desk. And I've been here for five years," he added.

Ruth felt a strange rush of emotions. Harry wasn't finished with his paperwork, tonight, but he had come out to see if she was okay. This wasn't completely one-sided then. He must like her too, just a little.

Determined not to show her secret joy, to Malcolm, Ruth forced conversation on wards to the subject of work.

"How is your task coming along?" she asked.

"Sound and audio on one of Moran's meeting houses done. We have a man on the inside, but he's far from the action, I'm afraid." Malcolm sighed. "I think Harry's talking to Adam about a possible op, to increase our inside influence, tomorrow. This is all going to heat up, if they do as well as they say they are going to, in the latest polls."

"Lets hope that they don't, then," Ruth suggested, with a wry smile. Hope was a luxury they could not afford, in this job. They had to know. Harry had to know. He was accountable for what happened when it all went wrong. "Anything new?"

"No," Malcolm sighed.

They both looked back over at Adam, Zaf and Fiona, who were discussing the relative comforts of Five compared to Six's London headquarters. As two officers who had been recruited directly for the domestic security service, neither Malcolm nor Ruth had ever been inside the SIS's headquarters (though both had been inside their mainframe). It all sounded rather dire and modern, in Ruth's opinion. There was something to be said about their poky, cut-off technology suite, their box-like records department and their coffee room. It was nice. Compartmentalised. Old fashioned. Then again, she had not been to many other departments. Section C was a little different. Maybe they were just old fashioned because Harry was in charge. He had been in charge for about seven years, she thought. The decor had probably not changed since then. A fond smile tugged at her lips and Ruth had to concentrate very hard on not letting her eyes fall over to the glass wall of Harry's office. He didn't like change, their boss.

She and Malcolm stood a little while longer, watching their colleagues. Conversation had slowed to a stand-still, but no awkwardness hung in the air. They were both quiet people, both content to speak only when they had something to say. He might be shy and a little reticent about forming bonds with new officers, but Ruth liked the technical officer. Maybe she would try to bring them closer, over the next few months. She could do with another friend, in the service.

"I suppose I'll head home, for the night," Malcolm told her, softly.

Ruth nodded. "Me too."

"I'll walk you down?" the older man suggested.

Ruth smiled. "That would be nice."

They gathered their things and bid goodbye to their younger colleagues, who were sharing raunchy stories about their time overseas. Ruth held her tongue on asking whether this much sharing was strictly legal, in their line of work. She was sure they would be careful. They were all good spooks, after all.

As they left, she could not help but let her eyes fall over to the wall of Harry's office. Behind glass, he was still sitting behind his desk, head in his hand, the tension of his frown throwing lines across his forehead. His lips moved very slightly as he toiled through what looked like two feet of paperwork. Ruth both wished she could help and was infinitely glad that she did not have to. It looked like a rather hard lot, being the boss. Still, he was good at it. Trying to banish inappropriate thoughts, of how soft Harry's lips might feel against hers, Ruth turned back to Malcolm.

"Shall we?"

Her colleague gave her a smile and a nod and together they exited the pods. They walked together to the ground floor then on, to the nearest bus stop. Along the way, they chatted amiably about life and work and everything in between. This had been a good idea, Ruth thought, reaching out to her colleague. Harry had been right. They needed to grasp the good while they could, laugh and celebrate when they found their victories. These were their redemption days and they made the bad seem just a little more bearable.

As her and Malcolm parted ways and Ruth boarded her bus, she glanced back down the street, to where the top floors of Thames House were still visible. She hoped Harry found his own salvation, wherever he sought it. He deserved it every bit as much, if not more, than the rest of them. He was a good boss. A good man. She didn't have to be infatuated with him to see that. Perhaps it was a good thing she was infatuated, though, Ruth thought with a smile. Perhaps that emotion was all that would stop her from going completely numb with the terror of it all. Perhaps Harry was her redemption.

Slipping into a seat, halfway down the top floor of the double-decker, Ruth sighed and dug around in her bag for a book. Who knew what could happen, in the future? Perhaps things would change. Perhaps there was just the tiniest chance that Harry would come to think of her as something more than an analyst and she could be his redemption too. She knew it was silly and, in reality, they never could be anything, but it was nice to dream. Harry always felt wonderful in her dreams.

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	2. Chapter 2

_A/N - Just a quick thank you to everyone who has already reviewed this little fic. I appreciate all the kind words and feedback. A more lighthearted chapter for you, this time - excuse the length it just kind of ran away with itself. __Set late season 4, between episodes 8 and 9. Enjoy! -Silver_

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_Chapter 2 _

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Harry was right. There were moments in the chaos which made it all worthwhile. As the weeks passed, Ruth took more time to notice them. She laughed at Zaf's jokes and remembered Danny with Fiona. She grieved with Adam when Fiona, too, was taken from them. She welcomed a new colleague to the Grid and made time in her busy work week to meet Malcolm and Colin for coffee.

They were a good lot, her team - and they really did feel like _her_ team, now. No longer did Ruth feel like the outsider, the analyst who couldn't understand the field agents' sacrifice. She had been in the field, now, too – often enough to remember why she would rather stay behind a desk. It felt sort of like she had passed an initiation. She survived her term as the new girl. Joanna Portman held that role, now, of course. Ruth was one of the old guard. Coming in, every morning, the security guards knew her by name. They said hello as she flashed her badge across security and said goodbye to her when she retired for the night. She was usually the last off the Grid, every evening. Second to Harry, of course.

Her boss remained blissfully unaware of her growing affections. He was far too busy to notice, Ruth reasoned, thinking back over the month he had suffered through. Fiona's death, Adam's breakdown, the loss of Hugo Ross, the almost-loss of the National Health Service, Adam's slow return from denial – not to mention a dozen other cases which they had worked in between said events. It had been a terrible month and Harry had shouldered the largest proportion of the blame, for what had happened. He had been very busy. Long hours. Early mornings. Late nights.

He was busy this morning, when Ruth arrived to an almost abandoned Grid. His office was empty but his coat was hung over the back of his chair. Upstairs, perhaps, she mused, or somewhere else in the building, harassing bureaucrats on behalf of Section D's interests. He was often out of the office, nowadays. Ruth did not have to deal with the political side of their work. She sat at her desk, analysing data. Interpreting data. Relaying data. Though it had not been where she had originally wanted to take her career, Ruth had come to love that part of her job. It made sense.

Unlike the situation now, she thought, taking in the strangely empty Grid. This made absolutely no sense.

Standing on front of the pods, Ruth scanned around herself, frowning as she failed to spot the familiar faces of the team. Admittedly, she had run a bit late this morning – forgetting her keycard and having to return to her house, therefore missing her usual bus – but usually, by this time on a weekday morning, Jo and Zaf would be certainly in, as would Malcolm. Adam was occasionally absent, if he was off at a meeting with Harry or suffering some crisis with Wes and a missing PE kit, but, for the most part, they would all be on site and going about their business. Their absence immediately sent alarm bells ringing in Ruth's head. Had something terrible happened and she hadn't heard about it? Was someone injured? Or worse?

Scanning the room again, she found some of their belongings lying around. So they had been in, then, she reasoned, determining that Malcolm's coat was a different one than he had worn the day before and that a coffee mug on Jo's desk was still steaming with heat. And they hadn't left long ago. Seizing hold of two junior analysts, Ruth asked them where her team members were. Neither of them knew, though both assured their nervous colleague that nothing terrible had happened, to their knowledge. Ruth was just about to let it drop and start going about her work when, from the corner of her eye, she saw Adam's blonde head disappearing through a doorway on the opposite side of the room.

Her brow furrowed.

Getting up from her chair, Ruth made her way over and eyed the doorway to what she realised was a usually-locked stationary cupboard. Her frown deepened as she noticed that the door was slightly ajar and the lock was turned ninety degrees from its usual position. Leaning a bit closer, she could hear that there was movement coming from inside. And whispering.

Slowly, she pushed the door inwards.

"Hello?" she asked, tentatively.

A bark of 'bugger it' greeted her, followed by a flurry of commotion from all five of the people gathered in the small room. Looking down, Ruth saw Zaf crouched over a large cardboard box, holding the flaps together protectively. Jo was crouching next to him while Colin, Malcolm and Adam stood over, the latter inexplicably holding a carton of milk in one hand and what looked like an empty one of Harry's glass whiskey tumblers in the other. Ruth looked to each of her colleague's faces in turn.

"What on earth are you all doing in here?" she asked.

As a few seconds passed, their expressions began to shift from guilt to unilateral relief. Jo blew out a heavy breath, Adam's shoulders relaxed and Malcolm rolled his eyes. Zaf, on the other hand, gave the box a pat and shook his head at her.

"God, Ruth," he admonished her, softly, "we thought you were Harry!"

Ruth feigned offence.

"Well thank you very much," she huffed, softly, before her eyes relocated to the box at Zaf's feet. Her brows knit a little closer together. If she was not mistaken, she had just seen it move. "Um, Zaf," she nodded to the box, "what is that?" The team's eyes flickered down to the box and Zaf looked suddenly very guilty again. Adam and Malcolm, more experienced spooks altogether, managed to keep straight faces. It was Jo, however, who was the most telling. She cringed, cheeks blushing. Ruth decided to focus her inquiry towards her youngest colleague. "What's in the box Jo?" she asked lightly, changing her tact to one of amiable innocence.

Adam wasn't fooled.

"No!" he warned Jo, as the young officer's mouth began to open. "Absolutely not. We can't risk another breach in Security. We've already let one person too many in on this already," he chided, motioning towards Malcolm.

Malcolm rolled his eyes again.

"Personally, I would rather you hadn't," he commented, wearily. "I said I wanted nothing to do with any of this."

"What is it?" Ruth asked again.

Jo, Colin, Zaf and Adam all exchanged rather serious looks.

"Come on, we can tell Ruth," Jo insisted.

"I don't know..." Zaf trailed off.

"She won't tell," Colin seconded Jo's assessment.

"I suppose not," Adam agreed, looking thoughtful. "After all, she did hold her own rather nicely on Harry's birthday surprise, last month."

"I did," Ruth confirmed. "I was brilliant. I didn't say anything. Hang on," she paused, re-evaluating their statement. "Is this something to do with Harry?"

Zaf pulled a face.

"Not _exactly_. We just need him... not to know about the box, for the rest of the day."

What on earth was in the box? Ruth's eyes lowered to it again. Zaf still had his hand placed over the flaps, but something was rustling inside. Some form of mechanical device, perhaps? Something they had picked up on a raid? It could not have been too bad, she reasoned, otherwise the pods would have sealed it in. Unless it was something new, she reasoned, that the pods had not been programmed to recognise. But then, why would the team bring something dangerous onto the Grid?

"What's in there?" she asked again, focussing on Adam this time as he was clearly the ring leader of their little gang.

They all exchanged a look again and Malcolm, seemingly done with all the secrecy, excused himself quietly from the closet. After shooting them all a slightly apologetic look, Colin followed.

"Okay," Adam relented, eventually, and Zaf and Jo looked pleased.

"You have to promise not to tell Harry," the younger man told Ruth, fixing her with very serious eyes.

Ruth frowned. "I won't," she faltered, turning from one expectant face to another, "barring national security, of course."

"Of course," Adam and Jo chorused.

"Rightly so," Zaf concurred.

Ruth frowned.

"So, what's in the box?"

Zaf leaned back down, over the box, and Ruth saw him fiddling with the tabs he had slid into place to stop the cardboard flaps coming loose. For a moment, she glimpsed newspaper and shredded paper towels. Then, it was all obscured by Zaf's back as he leant over, reaching inside. After a few seconds, he straightened up again, pulling himself to his knees, holding whatever was in the box carefully across his front. Slowly, he turned. And Ruth let out a slightly involuntary and completely unintentional noise of delight. Cradled in his arms was a small black puppy, tiny pink tongue curled in a tiny pink yawn.

Ruth could dimly remember her biology teacher telling her that there was something about infant animals which aroused protective instincts in adults, even across species barriers. This was certainly the case now. Though she knew, logically, that this was a very bad idea and that she should get out before she was forced to play any further part in it, she could not help but accept when Zaf handed the puppy over to her. It was sleepy and warm, all paws and soft, warm belly. As it paddled for purchase against her jumper and eventually settled into a comfortable position, it gave a tiny satisfied noise and all her logic completely drained away.

"Oh my god..."

"Cute, isn't she?" Zaf said triumphantly.

"Zaf..." Ruth breathed, reluctantly lifting her eyes off her charge and onto her colleague's again. "You can't have it here. Harry will flip if he finds out!"

"Harry doesn't have to know," he pointed out.

"Where did you even find it?" Ruth asked.

"My stairwell, this morning. And she's not an 'it', she's a 'she'," Zaf corrected, seriously, reaching over to tickle the puppy's ears. "We're going to call her Juliet, after another dark-haired bitch we know and love."

Ruth felt her expression shift as the conversation slid into dangerous territory.

"Zaf..."

Adam thankfully cut in at that moment, saving her from having to form a reprimand.

"Look," the Section Chief began, patiently, "we've already checked around with the police and the local shelters and she's not microchipped, or tagged, and nobody's looking for her. Zaf took her to a vet this morning and he checked her out. He said she was healthy but probably a stray whose mother died. Looks like she needs a home."

"You can't keep her here!" Ruth exclaimed, missing the point.

Jo giggled.

"No, Ruth, Fiona's parents have agreed to take her," Adam explained, with a little smile. "Wes always wanted a dog. I don't have the time, or the inclination, but his grandparents have a place out in the country. Lots of land, plenty of place for Juliet and Wes can go and visit her, whenever he likes. It works out well for everybody. They're coming to pick her up at five."

Ruth looked around them all, not quite believing that she had managed to find herself in this situation – in a stationary cupboard, in MI5 headquarters, with three spooks and an infant dog. In her arms, the pup wriggled around and settled on chewing on of the buttons on her jumper, little milk teeth rasping over the plastic. Ruth repositioned it, without much success. Once Juliet found a tooth-hold, she was reticent to release – much like her namesake.

"And how do you think you can possibly keep her a secret until five o' clock?" she asked, incredulously.

Adam looked to Zaf, who began to explain, his tone absurdly like that he used in the briefing room.

"We're going to take shifts," he told them, "checking on her, throughout the day. If everything keeps quiet, nobody should miss us, one at a time. Jo has found some newspapers and some things to clean up after her and I'm working out a plan to get her out, when Adam's in-laws get here."

Bloody great. This was sounding more and more like an operation, thought Ruth.

"And what if she won't be quiet?"

"She'll be quiet," Zaf assured her. "She's a quiet little thing, aren't you Juliet?" he asked, scratching the pup's chin.

It abandoned Ruth's jumper for Zaf's fingers, nipping happily, but remaining – as he had said – almost completely silent.

Ruth stood, shifting on the spot, letting her fingers dig into the soft fur of the infant dog in her arms. Next to her, Jo was looking worried, Adam faintly hopeful and Zaf just more intensely 'Zaf' than usual. His cheeky face was almost glowing with the thought of their illicit dog-boarding. Spies liked secret missions, she mused, looking from one face to another. And it seemed harmless enough. Even Malcolm had signed off on the operation – albeit in a more hands-free capacity than she found herself in. Maybe she should just say she would turn a blind eye, but to keep her out of it. Yes, she decided, giving the puppy's head one last stroke, that's what she would do.

Heaving a sigh of resignation, she nodded her head.

"Okay," she told Jo, heavily.

"See, Adam," the young officer grinned, "told you she would be cool."

Ruth, who had never been called 'cool' in her life, flushed a little, and muttered something about it not meaning she would in any way assist them in their illegal activities.

"Just keep me out of it," she warned them, handing the wriggling puppy back to Zaf, who received it happily. "I don't want to have to try and explain this at my next pay review."

"No problem," Jo chirped happily.

Zaf seconded her and the pair of them went back to cooing over the pup, Jo telling Zaf that, by all appearances, it was probably a Labrador and that she had given it a wash and brush in the ladies' bathrooms that morning, when the Grid was empty.

Trying not to think about what Harry's face would look like, if he ever found out about such an act, Ruth turned to Adam.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she warned him. "If they catch wind of this, you'll be back to TRING – no matter how well you're doing."

He got a strange little smile – the sad kind of smile that he wore now that Fiona was gone – and Ruth felt momentarily sorry for bringing up the matter of his brief stay at the psychiatric facility. She knew Adam was a warm-hearted sort, who wouldn't want to avoid the subject, but it might have been a little callous. Her worries were soon allayed, however, when he shook his head.

"Don't worry about us, Ruth," he assured her, "we know what we're doing. Harry won't suspect a thing."

Ruth huffed something about certainly hoping so and, gazing one last time over at the puppy, (who Zaf was holding like a baby and Jo was fussing over), turned and slunk back out of the stationary closet. Thanking whatever luck she had left that Harry was not in his office, to see her exit, she stepped quickly back across the Grid and situated herself behind her desk, logging onto her system, and got started on the day's task workload. It was not a particularly heavy one – mostly paperwork and re-routing chatter to different team members and departments. She tapped away for the next five minutes, keeping an eye on the stationary cupboard out of the corner of her eye. Eventually, the other three emerged, clearly leaving Juliet to her own devices, in her box. Crossing her fingers the pup would not start yelping, Ruth turned her eyes fully to the screen and got back to work.

.

Somehow, and Ruth would never know quite how they managed it, the team managed to keep the dog a secret until half past four. It helped that it was a quiet day. Their time was mostly spent finishing off reports and supervising surveillance operations for another team. Ruth did her bit, in between her tasks and running errands for Harry – who seemed to have conveniently forgotten, once again, that she was not his secretary.

Eventually, however, four-thirty came ticking around and she realised that they had a finite window for getting the dog out of the building and to Adam's in-laws, who were picking her up outside. She knew Adam had been hoping that Harry would chose to attend a monthly budgetary meeting, with the DG and several other Section Heads, up on the fifth floor. Unfortunately, however, Harry's enthusiasm for budgets was akin to his enthusiasm for politics, and he remained resolutely in his office, trudging through a pile of paperwork.

As the minutes passed and nobody seemed to be making any progress on their problem, Ruth decided to take matters into her own hands. She was not having the damned dog hanging around for another day, after all. It was cute, but the nervous tension in her body had almost reached breaking point. Reaching over her files and assorted pens, she picked up her phone and keyed in Adam's internal extension.

He picked up on the third ring.

"Hello,"

"Adam, it's Ruth."

Adam glanced up, on the other side of the room, briefly meeting her eyes. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"How do you want to do this?" she asked, then clarified, "Juliet, I mean."

Adam's smile quirked. Possibly as she had just asked him how he intended to 'do Juliet'. Men would be men.

"Zaf has a plan," he assured her. "I'll get him on, give me just a second." Frowning, he keyed in another number and Ruth heard the line click as Zaf's line was patched through. A few desks down, his phone rang, then the younger officer picked up.

"I hope this is a social call," he chirped in greeting – assumedly already knowing it was them by the extension number.

"Adam says you have an exit strategy," she stated, bluntly.

"Ah." Over at his station, Zaf nudged Jo and she wheeled her chair over, leaning in as if to look at his computer screen with him. "Right. Can I brief them, Adam?"

"Go ahead."

"Right," Zaf started, sincere as if this had been a real government-sanctioned operation. "Operation 'Get Juliet'..."

They really enjoyed this, Ruth marvelled; the excitement, the thrill, the clandestine nature of it all, spies playing at being spies.

"I have arranged for Michael Shipley, from Security, to be on at the ground level rear exit, between five and five-thirty. He has agreed to get Juliet's box through security, marked as a vetted parcel, if we can get her to him before ten to five." It was remarkable what you could sneak out of Thames House, thought Ruth, with Adam's security clearance and the right friends. On the other end of the line, Zaf continued, sounding rather pleased with himself. "All we need is to get her out of here without Harry figuring out what's going on."

"And how do you propose to do that?"

"A distraction."

Ruth glanced up at Harry, who was still absorbed in his report, not showing the slightest interest in why half of his staff were talking on the phone – to each other.

"What sort of distraction?" she asked, cautiously.

Too often, distraction became her job. A call to the police to distract attention the other way, while an operation played out; a spilled drink in a restaurant, while Adam slipped their target some tranquilizer in his wine; feigning being lost and asking for directions to get a voice match, on a suspect; it was always her. She was always the officer leftover, the one available, the one implicated by her inability to refuse her colleague's requests. It did not help that she was a naturally clumsy and unassuming sort of person. She made perfect distraction material.

But still... Harry? She could not possibly distract Harry's attention. Harry was not a layman in the street, or a drunken suspect at a restaurant. He was a professional and a good professional at that. He was one of the best in their business and he had the advantage of having known her for quite some time. She would blush and stumble over her words and he would know, instantly, something was up. Harry was boss spook. What on earth did it take, to distract a man like Harry? In a voice barely more than a hiss, she asked Zaf.

"Well, I'll leave that up to your imagination," the cheeky officer replied, turning Ruth's cheeks red and earning him a slap on the shoulder from Jo who was sitting next to him.

"But what am I supposed to say?" the analyst insisted. "He will see straight through some question about work."

"Make it personal," Adam chipped in. "Talk about time off, or a possible clash for your working hours, next month."

"I don't think I can do this..." Ruth began, but Adam's phone chose that moment to buzz and they all paused as he read the text message.

"Fi's parents are five minutes out," Adam informed them, glancing up to meet Ruth's eyes across the room. "Ruth, are you in?"

She dithered.

"I can't..."

"You have to, Ruth," Zaf wheedled. "Adam has to be waiting on the other side of security and I'm carrying Juliet's box down to Michael Shipley. Jo's stuck on this surveillance detail, with Colin," he added, as Jo pointed to the headset she was wearing, presumably to demonstrate that Zaf was telling the truth, "so she can't help. You're the only one left."

"Can't you get Malcolm?" Ruth tried, lamely.

"According to Colin, he cunningly left early, for a dentist appointment," Adam explained, hurriedly. "Ruth, we need to know if you're in, otherwise we'll have to change the plan."

She bit at her lip. She drummed her fingers against the table. She looked up to where Harry was sitting, in his office, a few more times than were strictly necessary. It was not that she did not want to help – apart from not wanting to get caught of course – the problem was, she was wholeheartedly sure that she could not do this. Harry saw through people like her every day of the week. He was the boss spook. She could not possibly hope to hold up to his scrutiny. Still, it was for a good cause. Wes had always wanted a puppy and Harry looked exhausted. If she was ever going to fool him, it was now. Taking in a deep breath, she nodded, turning her eyes to Adam's, across the Grid.

"Okay," she said, conceding defeat, "how long do you need?"

"One minute to cross the Grid, four more to cover us while we're downstairs. You can bail out, after six or so, but hold on if you can. The longer he is occupied, the less suspicious he will be that we've all vanished from sight."

Ruth glanced over at Harry's office again and nodded. She doubted he would really notice they were gone, to be honest, but Adam was right to cover their backs. If he emerged from his office at the exact moment they were carrying a box full of puppy across the Grid, there would be hell to pay.

"Well, I'll do my best," she told him, lamely.

Zaf drummed his fingers fast across the desk and leant back in his chair. "Then operation 'Get Juliet' is go!"

"Ruth," Adam told her, "you've made Wes a very happy boy."

She scowled.

"I said I'd do it, Adam, I don't need any further emotional blackmail."

Adam chuckled. "Okay. When I walk by your desk, you are good to go, then. Zaf, you know your role, I assume?"

"Got it, boss," the younger officer replied.

"And tell Jo to keep her head down and call me if Harry thinks something's afoot."

"On it."

Adam hung up.

Zaf turned to Ruth, throwing her a wink across the Grid. "Just flutter your eyelashes, Ruth," he told her, "Harry's a sucker for a pretty face." Then he hung up to, leaving Ruth to stare at her screen, blushing violently.

She sat that way for a good ten seconds, or so, with the phone to her ear – to allay suspicion if anyone was watching the three of them end their phone calls near simultaneously. Then, tapping something into her computer, she set the phone back down in its cradle, with a click. Taking slow breaths and trying to rectify what they were doing with her logical desire not to be in her boss's bad books, she sat and waited for Adam to signal for her to go in.

All the while, her mind was scrambling for possible topics, to keep Harry's attention. Work was the obvious forerunner, but she hadn't any problems that needed solving. Adam's suggestion about holiday time wasn't that bad but she didn't know when she wanted to take her holiday time, this year, and it wouldn't be very good if she arranged it all now and then had to go back and change it when she actually had plans – _if_ she actually had plans, that was. (Ruth was not exactly a social butterfly. Her last holiday had been spent curled up on her sofa, watching old films and sleeping at inappropriate times of the day). She had just come around to considering asking for another analyst to help with her workload, when Adam stood up at his desk and began to make his way over. He passed in front of her station, handing her off an empty file and giving her a meaningful look.

"Clocks on, Ruth," he told her, then turned on his heel and headed out, towards the pods.

With a surge of anxiety, Ruth stood and prepared to head over to Harry's office. She waited until Adam had disappeared from sight and Zaf had passed, heading towards the stationary cupboard, before making her play. Then, slowly, she began to walk forwards.

This was stupid, she told herself, smoothing down her skirt and trying to stop her legs from shaking. What was she doing, here? Why had she got herself involved? The whole scenario was very unlikely to get her fired, but it was more than likely to get her put in the doghouse (pardoning the pun) for the foreseeable future. Harry bore grudges and he did not like his employees being less than truthful with him. Though their infringement on his trust was a rather mild one, he would still be angry – and at Ruth as much as he was with Adam and Zaf, who had roped her in. Blame would be proportioned equally, not just to who had come up with the idea.

Ruth bit at the inside of her lip. This was very stupid. Over the last few months, she and Harry had started to talk more than they had done. Perhaps he realised that she was lonely, since Danny's death. Or, perhaps, it was just how things had worked out – their timetables being so that they were on the Grid at the same time almost every day. Either way, they had started to form what Ruth would tentatively term as a working friendship. They would say hello to each other, every morning. They would go slightly out of their way, during the day, to stop by each others' office/desk to see how they were getting along. Occasionally, during one of those evenings where they were the last two left on the Grid, Harry would stop and chat to her for a while. Occasionally, he even brought her tea when he was making some himself.

Things were nice between them. Comfortable, after a year or so of not quite being sure how to treat one another. Harry, it seemed, was a hard man to earn trust from but, once you had it, you had it unreservedly. Ruth had earned her trust. And she liked having it. She liked their gentle conversations over the weather and how Adam and Wes were doing. She liked being the only one who he really chatted to, apart from about work. She liked being the one to hear his half-hearted complaints about Juliet and management. She liked Harry and she liked him liking her back. So why was she doing this, exactly?

Because she was a soft touch and Zafar Younis was surprisingly persuasive.

Damn that man.

Swallowing to steady herself, she made her way down the narrow hallway to Harry's door, running through what she was going to talk about again in her head. A quick question that she did not really need to ask, about the case they were working. That would be followed by a smooth segue into talk about her holiday dates and whether he was going to look for cover. From there, they could talk about the more permanent transfer of analysts to their department – a subject which Ruth was quite sure she could carry on for at least five minutes as she felt quite strongly on the matter. Loathe as Harry was at vetting potential candidates, they did need another analyst. It was a good plan, for a conversation, but Ruth knew, once she stepped in that door, all plans would be thrown to the wind. Harry Pearce was not a man easily fooled, even when he was tired, at the end of the day. This was a stupid idea.

Her feet carried her to his office door almost automatically. On a good day, her job took her there once or twice, at least. Ruth was almost always the bearer of bad news. To his credit, Harry never took it personally. Whatever his rage, when she dumped another pile of inter-agency request forms onto his desk, it was never directed at her. He was a good boss, she thought, with a twinge of guilt. He did not deserve people to sneak dogs onto his Grid. Taking a steadying breath, she lifted her hand and rapped twice on the doorframe.

Her boss responded more or less immediately.

"Yes?" He answered, voice muffled by the door. Ruth was just reaching for the door handle, when it suddenly began to slide open of its own accord. She jumped, slightly, as Harry appeared in the gap. "Oh, hello," he greeted her, then looked back down at the report he was holding. "Could whatever it is wait, just a moment? I need to ask Adam about this. It won't take a second-,"

Ruth panicked. Adam was downstairs. Off site. Unexplained. And Zaf was probably preparing to carry Juliet across the Grid, as they spoke.

"Adam's not here," she blurted.

Harry froze, eyebrows raising slightly at the ferocity of her reply.

"Oh," he said, brow lowering into a frown. "Any idea where he might have gone?"

"Meeting Fiona's parents," Ruth stuttered, forcing herself to keep going despite the discomfort in her chest. The best lies were built on truth. She had to make this convincing. "I think its something about Wes," she explained, praying that Harry did not ask what, as she had absolutely no further information planned out.

"Oh," Harry looked genuinely concerned, for a moment. "Nothing the matter, I hope?"

"He looked more vexed than worried," Ruth blustered. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"I'm sure." Harry nodded.

They stood for a moment, regarding each other carefully. Ruth felt very aware of the throb of her rapid heartbeat in her neck and the ever-quickening rise and fall of her chest. Harry's attention was focussed intently on her face. There was an expression in his eyes which looked very faintly like suspicion. Anxious to quell it, Ruth cleared her throat and forced herself to speak again – to break the tension, if nothing else.

"Can I help?" she asked.

"Oh," her boss looked down at his file, frowning. "I don't know. Were you involved in writing up that business in Hackney, two weeks ago?"

Ruth felt a flash of offense.

"Yes," she answered, just a little shortly. She had personally written the report he was carrying. Well, she corrected herself, all the _legible_ parts of the report – apart from Adam's scrawled debriefing, at the back. It was typical, however, that Harry did not know that. He seemed to think reports formed themselves from thin air, in the aftermath of crises. Still, it was not his fault, Ruth reasoned with herself. He read ten or twenty of these per day. He could not remember who had written all of them. "What are you having a problem with?" she asked, softening her tone.

Harry turned the file around, pointing to a section near the bottom.

"We have three references to Adam's source, but it's not mentioned previously in the report. I was just wondering how he supposed to justify a six-man surveillance team on a single eye witness report?"

Ruth glanced up at him. "You signed off on it," she pointed out.

Harry frowned a little more.

"Yes, I was wondering _why. _I have to explain it to the DG tomorrow - some waste of time to do with justifying our budget for the quarter."

Ruth paused. "Well... I'm not entirely sure," she began, hesitantly, stalling for time. "You didn't share your thoughts, on the matter."

A hint of a smile appeared around his lips.

"Shame," he commented, softly, eyes dancing over hers. "I'm sure my life would be more organised, if you kept track of my thoughts."

They hovered across from each other, not quite talking, for another few seconds, then Ruth held out her hand, offering to take the report and have a look through it. Harry accepted her offer, handing it over and stepping further back inside his office.

Glad to have moved him out of the corridor and into a Juliet-free zone, Ruth followed, flicking through the report. She knew it off by heart, of course, (and had already formed an idea on why Harry had signed off on Adam's intel), but she needed to stall for as much time as possible. Flicking through to the front of the report, she scanned through the paragraphs, trying to find one she could use in her ruse. She apologised to Harry as she went, for taking so long.

All the time her heart was thundering in her chest. Standing just inside his office, they were no more than a few feet apart and Ruth could not help but notice his eyes. He had beautiful eyes, she mused, as thought and words abandoned her, mindless adoration rushing in to fill its place. The rest of him might not be conventionally handsome – though Ruth liked it well enough – but Harry really did have beautiful eyes.

Oh, this was going to be the end of her, Ruth thought with a sigh. She couldn't fall in love with Harry Pearce (because this _was_ falling in love, not just a run-of-the-mill workplace crush). Harry Pearce was a completely inappropriate person to fall in love with. She had not expected it to happen. Ruth knew she had a habit of mixing respect and trust with affection and that was what she had always taken her attraction to Harry to be. She had respected him from the outset. She had trusted him since she had seen how much he sacrificed, for his team and his country. She had thought he was wonderful since some indefinable point last year. And, now, she was falling in love with him.

Damn and blast. Why had she let this happen?

"Ruth?" he asked her name, softly.

Startled, Ruth looked quickly up, "yes?"

Harry nodded down at the file, pointedly raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, right, yes," looking down, she pointed to the last line on the page, realising she could not really stall any more on this one. "The information came from our Brixton asset," she told Harry, "which Adam corroborated with surveillance from our team on Bahir's cell."

"Brixton. The one we were keeping in safehouse k-five?"

"Yes," Ruth nodded. "He's been reliable, so far."

"Right. Well, that clears that up."

"I think you read the interview transcripts," she blustered on, stalling for more time.

"I probably did."

"We signed him over to six, last week, for one of their operations, if you need to get back in contact." Ruth added, then ran flat out of things to say. "That's all I really have, here," she mumbled, not able to tear her eyes away from Harry's.

Harry continued to watch her, his gaze unyielding. Interested, but not in work. He was reading her.

Ruth's stomach dropped away, inside of her.

_He knew._

She had no idea how he knew, but he knew. She supposed it made sense. He was Harry Pearce, for god's sake. This was his department, his Section. He had been here since she had been flouncing around at University, studying ancient literature. She should never have been stupid enough to believe that they could fool him on his own ground. This was his territory, his place. He knew everything that happened here. He had probably known since this morning. God knows why he had decided to let it play out. Maybe it had all been a test, to see which of them would come and tell him first? God, what if she had failed?

"I should, um... paperwork, you know," Ruth began to stammer, but Harry cut in.

"What are they up to?" he asked, pleasantly.

"Who?" Ruth tried, in vain, to feign innocence.

"Zaf and Adam," Harry nodded behind her, to the Grid, "and perhaps Joanna Portman. I'm not sure, quite yet, but I know they're up to something."

"I'm sure they wouldn't, I mean," Ruth stuttered, "they aren't... and I wouldn't know what, even if they were..."

Harry stepped just half a foot forwards, the movement bringing them into quite close proximity. In response, the hairs along the back of Ruth's neck stood up and her heart shuddered faster in her chest. It was almost enough for Ruth to break down, there and then, and tell him everything. The only thing which stopped her was the thought of the bollocking Zaf and Adam would receive – and the possibility that seven year old Wes might not get his puppy. They stood in silence for a very long ten seconds then, finally, her boss sighed and spoke.

"I trust its nothing dangerous?" he asked her, his tone soft.

Ruth realised it was a kind of Harry-style forgiveness and hastened to seize it. Shaking her head, she assured her boss that their secret was, indeed, nothing dangerous. In fact, she told him, it wasn't even anything to do with work, or MI5.

"It's stupid, really," she explained, apologetically, "just something Adam and Zaf are doing, for Wes. It was nothing personal, keeping you in the dark, they just didn't want to..." she paused, searching for the appropriate word.

"Infringe on my plausible deniability?" Harry suggested.

Nodding again, Ruth felt relief tickle the sharp edges off her panic. "Yes," she told him, sincerely.

"So I won't be getting an interesting phone call, from the DG, tomorrow morning?"

"No. They'll have it all covered up in ten minutes or so. Nobody will know what happened."

Harry gave a slightly weary sigh.

"I suppose security are in on this?"

"Yes. Well, one of them," Ruth admitted. "One of Zaf's friends."

"...how comforting."

A moment or two passed then Ruth tried, again, to justify her colleagues' actions, hoping to bring back the edge of softness that had been lurking in her boss's eyes before she mentioned security. "They thought if you didn't know, then you couldn't be implicated if it all went wrong," she explained, meeting Harry's gaze shyly. "They meant well."

"And I suppose you got dragged into all of this against your will?" he asked, just a little sarcastically.

Ruth's blush deepened.

"Well, no," she admitted, "but Adam was rather adamant that they needed me, to distract you."

A slightly strange expression flitted across Harry's face.

"Was he, now?"

Ruth gave a nod.

The strange expression slid away again, as soon as it had come. It was only in its absence that Ruth realised what it had been. Vulnerability. Vulnerability and a little bit of worry. Oddly enough, vulnerability from Harry did not serve to make her feel any more sure of herself. In fact, it did quite the opposite. Her heart skipped faster, inside her chest.

"I didn't make a very good job at it," she admitted to him, softly, trying to break the sudden tension in the room. "I was never very good at distractions."

Harry cracked a small smile. "You did not badly," he told her. "If I hadn't already known, you would have had me wonderfully distracted." As his smile twitched a little wider, it threw up fine lines in the shadow of one eye. "A word of advice, for next time, however. When you come to my office, don't knock. It drew my suspicion immediately." He paused, momentarily, eyes sparkling. "You never knock."

Ruth's breath caught slightly, her heart thumping suddenly faster, blood rushing past her ears. She felt slightly giddy. And, to make matters worse, the reaction was not entirely un-reciprocated.

Across from her, Harry's gaze had grown deep and slightly dark. She had glimpsed that look before and, even if it was only briefly, she knew what it meant. Harry was just a man, underneath all of the self-control and all of his responsibilities. He knew that she had feelings for him and, Ruth knew, that sort of attraction made a woman attractive. Even if he would have never considered her before learning that she liked him, he had considered her since. Ruth had picked up on the glances he occasionally threw her way – on the smiles and the way he chatted with her lightly, when they were the last two on the Grid. He had considered what they would feel like, together. She could tell. However, he had never really let it stray out into the open before. Not like this. This was tantamount to flirting.

"Sorry," she breathed, not quite able to tear her gaze away from his.

"Quite all right." Harry's eyes darted about her face, revelling perhaps in catching her off-guard. "At least you're consistent. Besides," he added, in slightly honeyed tones, "if I were doing anything truly sinister in here, I'd lock the door."

If it was possible to die from embarrassment, Ruth thought, she would be well on her way to the afterlife by now. Her throat was suddenly tight, her skin quickly colouring a shade of beet , of course, said nothing about it, just continued to smile at her, sliding his hands into his pockets, the very picture of innocence. He was definitely teasing, thought Ruth, swallowing hard. The problem was, however, she had no way of stopping him. She was too flustered and embarrassed to come up with a coherent retort and she was too guilty to act self-righteous. She could not run because she was holding his file in her hands and he had his hands in his pockets. She could not hand it over and she could hardly just throw it to the floor and run. God no, he might follow her out onto the Grid, if she did that.

"I should really go and finish my paperwork," she whispered, her voice strained within her tight throat, hoping against hope that Harry would just take the file and let her go – preferably suffering from some sort of memory lapse, immediately afterwards, so that he could not remember any of this ever happening.

"Leave now and they'll know your distraction failed," he pointed out.

"Why bother with the pretence?" Ruth asked, a little breathlessly, her cheeks still burning. "You already know something's going on."

"Being assured it is nothing dangerous, I'd quite like to maintain my plausible deniability, should whatever it is they are transporting be discovered."

Ruth got the feeling that he knew exactly what they were transporting – that he knew everything.

"What do you want me to do, then?" she asked, with more bravado than she really felt. "Just stand here?"

"Well," Harry regarded her, with dark, dark eyes, "...you _could_ distract me."

Ruth's heart leapt into her throat, her belly dropping away inside of her. She could distract him. Gods, how she would like to distract him. She would distract him here and now, with all of the Grid watching, if he asked her to, she thought. Well, maybe not quite with the entire Grid watching on, but right now, in the moment, it certainly felt like it. It had been years since she had wanted anything as much as she wanted this. The tension was so great that it even overcame her natural social cowardice. Suddenly bold, her lips parted and words fell from them before she had fully realised.

"...how?" she asked, wanting so desperately to know if what she felt was reciprocated, desperate for some sign that he might want her, desperate for him.

Harry leant slightly forwards, dipping his head towards her, and her heart rate trebled. His pupils were huge and black. The slivers of iris around them were almost gold in the office light. As his lips parted, she almost stopped breathing. God, she wanted so much to kiss him.

"I like coffee," he told her, softly.

Ruth blinked. Mind stilling.

"Coffee?" she asked aloud.

He liked... coffee?

"Milk, one sugar," Harry added, straightening up and giving her a pleasant smile. "And as hot as that machine can manage."

Her eyes narrowed.

Ass.

He was a complete ass.

The breath Ruth had not even realised she was holding flooded free from her chest. She stared up at her boss, caught somewhere between crippling embarrassment and a healthy dose of wanting to slap him across the face. He had done that on purpose – he had blatantly done that on purpose! He had used her feelings to his advantage, to teach her a lesson for sneaking around behind his back. Though a tiny part of Ruth knew that she deserved it, but most of her was seething over what a manipulative, smug bastard he could be. And to think she had spent the best part of the afternoon considering how it would be to marry him and make a houseful of babies.

"Fine," she stuttered, trying to pull herself together. "Okay. Milk and one sugar?"

"Milk and one sugar," Harry nodded, eyes victorious.

"Right."

Turning, Ruth tried to leave, then remembered she still had his file in her hand and turned hastily back towards him. While she had been turned, however, he must have realised she was walking off with his file as well, because he had taken a step forwards – perhaps intending to follow her out to get it. Ruth's turning, therefore, suddenly brought them very close to one another.

She breathed in sharply as his outstretched fingers, slipped across the file, coming to rest against hers.

Harry gave just a tiny start as well, some of the surety sliding away from his gaze.

"Your file," Ruth managed to force out, after a few tortured seconds had passed, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Yes, I forgot to take it back," Harry murmured back, a little less cocksure confidence in his voice now that they were touching.

"Here." Ruth pushed it a little further into his hand.

"Thanks."

For a few moments, they continued to stand, watching each other out of their peripheral vision, breathing in each other's scent. They were taking more time handing over the file than both knew was strictly necessary, but they had never really touched before and both were clearly interested in the reaction it caused the other. Finally, however, when they could pretend to be assisting each other no longer, their fingers disentangled and Ruth released her hold on the file, Harry tightening his. Their eyes flickered up to each others' faces, then both pulled back.

Turning on her heel, Ruth headed out into the corridor and across the Grid, through to the coffee room. She was still there, stirring milk into the mug, when Jo, Adam and Zaf appeared back on the Grid. Sidling up, they informed her that operation 'Get Juliet' had been a success and Adam's in-laws were heading off with the dog as they spoke. Turning to Ruth, Jo gave a wide smile and asked how distracting Harry had gone.

Shooting Zaf a glare as he chuckled, Ruth informed the younger officer that it was not something she would be repeating any time soon.

"Next time you want a distraction," she told them tightly, "Zaf can go streaking across the Grid. I'm out."

Turning her back on them, Ruth heard his muffled reply as she stormed off to give her boss his coffee.

"Well, I wouldn't want to scare anyone," the young officer quipped, then turned and asked their youngest colleague. "Who do you reckon rubbed _her_ up the wrong way?"

Jo just shook her head warningly, in reply.

.

Ruth made the coffee and delivered it, thanking god that Harry was on the phone, because it spared them the awkward moment of encountering each other after their almost-moment in his doorway just minutes before. Handing over the cup, she was careful not to let their fingers touch, or even brush. She was too annoyed for contact.

As her boss accepted the coffee and mouthed 'thanks', however, the animosity she had been harbouring gently began to seep away. Yes, he could be an ass, sometimes... yes, he knew what she felt, for him and had used it to his advantage, to teach her a lesson... but it hadn't been done maliciously. Besides, he was a spook, she reminded herself. He played people for a living. Should any of this really have been such a surprise?

She was just a silly girl, she told herself, for getting herself into the situation in the first place. Forcing her feet to turn away from Harry's desk, she turned to head back out, to the Grid. She was a silly girl because she had no business falling in love with men like Harry Pearce. It could only ever end in disaster. She should stop it now, she scolded herself, before it went too far (though, in her heart, she knew it had already passed 'too far'. She was in love with him). She should stop giving herself opportunity to fall further.

As she reached the door, however, Harry's voice caught her and she could not help but turn back, to meet his eyes across the room. They were friendly.

"Thanks for the coffee," he told her, as close to an apology as Ruth thought she was ever like to get.

"It's nothing," she blustered back, fidgeting on the spot.

"Heading home?" he asked, clearly on hold. As he held the telephone half away from his ear, Ruth could hear the music playing in the background. GCHQ hold music, she recognised. He was talking to one of her old bosses, no doubt. Hopefully not about sending her back, or anything severe.

"I thought I'd hang around, finish some bits and pieces up," she blustered, trying to make a good impression – just in case this call was about sending her back to Cheltenham.

Harry gave a tiny smile.

"Go home," he nodded. "Or go wherever they're going, to celebrate," he added, nodding to Zaf, Adam and Jo who had just stood up and were heading to the pods, en-masse. "Today was a good day," he pointed out.

Ruth felt a little warmth creep up within her.

"And I should enjoy it, I know." She gave a little smile, not quite able to stop herself. "Find redemption where I can," she quoted him.

He looked a little pleased that she had remembered his advice.

"Exactly," he nodded, with a tiny smile.

They held each other's gaze for a moment longer and anything that was left of her previous annoyance fled from Ruth's heart. So Harry had played her a little, just because he could. No one had been harmed. Embarrassment had never killed anyone, after all. And it didn't make Harry a bad person. It made just him... Harry. And she was falling in love with Harry. Harry was good and brave and, stubborn ass or not, he protected them. He did his best by his team and by his country.

"What did they call it, by the way?" he asked, catching her just as she was about to bid him goodbye.

Ruth frowned. "It?"

"The thing I do not know about."

"Oh," she laughed, slightly. Of course he knew. He was Harry. "Juliet," she admitted, forgetting for a split second that Harry and Juliet had history and perhaps she should have held her tongue.

She needn't have worried about backlash, however. At her answer, a rich, warm laugh bubbled up, from Harry's throat.

"A worthy choice." His eyes flickered over her face again. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ruth."

"I'll be in early tomorrow, to collate our information coming in from the Iranian asset."

He gave a tiny smile. "Sounds like a plan."

Ruth took a steadying breath.

"Goodnight, Harry."

He never got to wish her goodnight, because whomever he was talking to, on the phone, came back on the line at that exact moment. Sending her a little roll of the eyes, at the ill-timed nature of it, Ruth's boss gave her a small smile and turned back to his desk, leaving Ruth standing in his doorway. After watching him for just a second longer, she slipped out and made her way back down the corridor, fiddling with her sleeves as she headed back to the Grid.

Arriving at her desk, she grabbed her coat and her bag and, though she wanted nothing more than to sit at her desk and finish up her work – and, occasionally, catch a glimpse of Harry doing the same across the room – she forced herself to turn off her system and head out, through the pods. Today was a good day. She would go and catch the others. She would celebrate because she didn't know how much longer any of them had. Remember Danny, she told herself, as the glass pods swished closed behind her. They had to seize every moment while they could.

As she slipped out of sight, she did not catch Harry's furtive glance after her, which was probably a good thing. It would have consumed her thoughts all evening.

.


	3. Chapter 3

_Set season 5 between episodes 2 and 3._

_._

_Chapter 3 _

.

It was bloody early when Ruth made her way in to work, intending to finish off a rather important report which she had abandoned the night before. As she followed her normal route through the city, she took a moment to admire the beauty of the morning.

London shimmered with light; its great buildings all light stone against dark streets; its great towers, with their steel and glass, appearing almost crystalline in the sun. The sky above was almost clear and, as the sun streamed across the horizon, it painted the undersides of the few clouds that hung there pink and gold. Red sky in the morning, thought Ruth, staring up at it, from the window of her bus. Was that the better or the worse of the well known saying? She was fairly sure it was the latter – a warning.

There had been a lot of blood spilt, over the past few months. The business with CIA manipulating the government, over Iran, the tragic death of Angela Wells, Harry leaving and coming back and almost getting shot, Adam injured, Colin murdered, another near miss for Harry and Adam and a much closer brush with death for Juliet (Ruth had never much liked the woman, but even she held pity in her heart for the National Security Coordinator never being able to walk again). It had been a hard time, peppered with panic and conspiracy. Harry was looking particularly worse for wear but, thankfully, things had taken a calmer turn over the last week. Ruth had been able to go home every night at a more or less normal time. Minus the report which she was heading in to finish, this morning, her in-tray was looking more normal than it had since last November.

Turning her attention back to the window of the bus, Ruth resumed counting down the bus stops left until her own arrived. Her journey in was the same every morning; Circle line to Westminster, then Route three down towards Lambeth bridge if she was running late, or it was wet outside. By the time the bus pulled up alongside Victoria Tower gardens, she was always on the edge of her seat, ready to hop off and head around the corner to Thames House. Deep down, of course, she knew that her eagerness was not borne of a desire to finish reports. She knew that it mostly had to do with her desire to see her aforementioned boss. As silly as her infatuation was, however, she couldn't seem to shake it.

Harry.

Despite them not really having had any conversation on the matter, Ruth felt that things had changed between them, over the last few months. Ninety five percent of the time, Harry acted as he always had towards her but there were moments. Sometimes, Ruth caught his eyes lingering just a little too long as she made a report, in the briefing room. Sometimes, he would make some little quip or joke when they were alone and she would know that it was for no other reason than to make her smile. It was all subtle and cautious and slightly shy but, where three months ago she might have thought it was just Harry being awkward and friendly, she now knew he was flirting.

Harry flirting. With her.

It was not just their fleeting interactions at work, either. There were off-Grid moments too.

The first had been a black op in Baghdad. It had been just the two of them and Harry had seemed more relaxed, out of the Thames House environment. On the plane back out, he had joked and helped himself to her bag of crisps as they chatted. He had discussed his abhorrence of flying and, when they had read through the reports together, he had let his arm rest against hers – something that could be considered a concession to space constraints, in the confines of the small charter, but exciting for Ruth nonetheless.

Then, there had been that moment on the bus. The team had been working to get Harry back from an unfair dismissal by Juliet Shaw. Harry needed a file and Ruth was the best one to get it to him, what with Adam being watched carefully after his meeting stunt at the dog track. The clandestine nature of it all had made it twenty times more exciting. Ruth's heart had felt like it was beating about a thousand beats a minute as her boss's fingers slipped around hers, accepting the little USB drive. As the moment caught and held, she was almost sure that Harry was going to say or do something about it – they had grown closer and she was almost sure he was interested – but no, he had asked how Adam was doing and she had turned away, disappointed and embarrassed to have expected more.

For a couple of weeks after the bus incident, Ruth had drawn back from pursuing any thoughts on the matter of 'them'. She all but convinced herself that she had her wires crossed, that she had misread Harry's interest in her, that maybe he just thought of her as an asset to his team. But then, during their investigation into Angela Wells, he pinned her against the wall of the corridor, outside his office, and – though his words were all of work and duty, and the sacrifices they made – she could feel that this was more personal than that.

'_Aren't you proud_?' he asked her, and she could feel his pride in his voice. '_You did what needed to be done. You're a born spook, Ruth'_

There they were – her furiously angry and both of them full of adrenaline – just inches apart. His eyes had been on her lips, his hand on her wrist, feeling her heart thunder. And there might have been times when Ruth couldn't read him, like when he had lied to her and Adam about being on the committee which planned Diana's death to prove a point, but this was not one of them. She could read him completely, in that moment. His eyes were full of genuine care for her, as a person and not just as an asset. And something more than just care, too; heat. Heat like want.

It was self denial and self control that had been holding them apart, Ruth had realised, with a thrill. Harry was interested. She was not misreading things after all. Almost losing him to Michael Collinwood's attempted uprising had cleared any lingering doubts she might have had. There was definitely something there, it was reciprocal, and she was okay about that – maybe even excited, as to where it might lead.

Stepping off the bus, Ruth made her way down to Thames house and headed upstairs in high spirits. Things were well for her. There was something growing between her and Harry and today, she could feel, was going to be a good day. The weather was beautiful, her workload was undemanding and – to top it all off – the Grid would be almost empty due to the youth of the hour. Jo, Zaf and Harry were off running a joint operation with A section. Malcolm was off today and Adam was coming in late, due to a parent-teacher conference at Wes's school. It would be nice to get a head start on her workload, she thought with a smile, before more requests started streaming in.

She had just entered, through the pods, and was on her way over to make coffee, when she spotted Joanna Portman reclining at her desk. The younger officer's eyes closed and her head was tilted back against the back of her seat, fast asleep.

Frowning, Ruth strode over. Jo had been on surveillance duty, for the Section A joint-op. As of seven o' clock last night, when Ruth signed off the system, said op was still active and their extraction date was not until the day after tomorrow. Jo, then, was supposed to be in Finchley, in the back of one of the MI5 spy vans. That she was here, instead, indicated that something had gone wrong.

Ruth drew level with her colleague's desk, all the optimism of five minutes ago draining away, worry slipping in to replace it in her stomach.

"Jo?" she asked, reaching out to shake the sleeping officer.

In her chair, Jo stirred and stretched, fighting off the veil of sleep.

"Oh," she yawned, eventually, pulling herself more upright and rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. "Ruth, hello." Another enormous yawn. "Ugh, what time is it? I'm supposed to be back at the hospital by eight. I just popped back to pick up my house keys." She paused, looking around herself, clearly trying to gauge what she had been doing prior to falling asleep. "I sat down to write a memo, to update you on what was happening, and my eyes must have slipped shut without me noticing."

Ruth frowned, the little tingle of worry in her belly immediately turning into a whole-body experience.

Hospital. Jo had said hospital. Someone was hurt.

"Is everyone all right?" she asked, perhaps a little bit too quickly, a little too worriedly.

Her eyes flickered over to Harry's office, where the blinds were shut tight. She had thought that meant he was not in yet but, squinting now, she could see lamplight peeking through the slats. That, however, did not necessarily mean he was present and well. It could mean that HR had been in to collect his mail/messages/whatever a temporary replacement would need if he was out of action, due to injury.

Ruth swallowed. It was like that moment when they had discovered about the car bomb, which had paralysed Juliet. For just a few moments, Ruth had not known whether it was the Home Secretary and the National Security Coordinator or Harry and Adam whose car had exploded. For those few moments, her heart had felt stuck to the back of her chest, constricted. Anxiety pressing. Panic slipping in.

Harry. Hurt.

Beside her now, however, Jo just gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Yes, it's nothing. Zaf has a cracked rib and they'll need to re-set his nose, but he'll live to annoy another day." She yawned again. "The operation was a success. We apprehended two suspects and CO19 are now sitting on the man they were reporting to. Section A are going to take it from here, as he has human trafficking connections." Jo leant forwards in her seat and stretched again.

"And Harry?" Ruth pressed, a little timidly. She knew that her unwarranted interest in their boss would eventually lead to the team discovering how she felt about him but she couldn't hold herself back, on this occasion. "Is he okay?"

Jo nodded. "I think so."

"Think so?"

"He had a pretty good smack around the head with a Glock 25, but won't bloody go to medical to be checked over, despite my best attempts at persuasion."

"But he's okay?" Ruth stressed.

"Well, I assume so. It was a hard blow, but he insists he's feeling fine and he has none of the symptoms of a concussion..." Jo looked over to his office, confirming his presence there, then pulled a face. "He was pretty grumpy, so I just decided to leave him to it."

Ruth couldn't help but think that was a bit of an irresponsible way to treat an injured colleague. Harry would certainly never have left any of them alone after an injury unless he was completely sure that they were okay. Her eyes drifted over to his office again.

Harry could be hurt.

Beside her, Jo was rummaging through her own pockets, searching for her phone by the sounds of her muttered curses.

"It's half six, by the way," Ruth told her, distractedly, realising she never had answered her earlier question. "You've not missed your hospital appointment."

"Ah, good," Jo abandoned her search for her mobile and clambered up out of her chair, brushing down her wrinkled slept-in clothes. "I should get back," she told Ruth, grabbing the rucksack that had been lying at her feet and slinging it over one shoulder. "I'll be back in this evening to debrief. Before then, I need to change out of my two-day clothes, shower, drag my rather bruised flatmate home and somehow get a few hours of sleep."

Ruth nodded, feeling relieved that Zaf and Jo were okay, feeling still a little uneasy about Harry.

"Give Zaf my best wishes. Tell him I can pop by later if he needs anything."

"I will," Jo smiled. "Although, I warn you, if you use the word 'anything' he _will_ suggest a sponge bath." After arranging herself ready to head out, the younger woman turned back to Ruth and asked, in a slightly cajoling voice, "Listen, you couldn't check in on Harry for me, could you? I'm pretty sure he's fine but medical should have a look at his head anyway. Of course, he won't listen to a word I say, on the matter. I think his having a daughter my age makes my advice go in one ear and out the other. But he listens to you. I think he sees you as more of a..." Jo cut herself off, her words trailing away. Her expression remained mildly flustered, for a moment, then she cleared her throat and re-gathered herself. "He'll listen to you," she rephrased.

Ruth felt her cheeks threaten to blush, but concentrated on her heartbeat and slowly the threat faded away.

"I'll talk to him," she assured Jo.

The blonde officer smiled and nodded, then bid Ruth goodbye and headed off towards the pods. They swished and she stepped through and out into the corridor, heels clicking away.

Ruth was left alone on the empty Grid, watching Harry's office window. She was sure he was fine. He had told Jo so, after all, and he had enough experience of head wounds. But still... He could be hurt and she didn't like the idea of risking that. So, putting aside the fact that running straight to Harry's office made her look slightly too worried just to be a concerned colleague, Ruth strode over to the door and gave it a triple rap with her knuckles.

The reply was immediate, albeit grumpy.

"What do you want?" came Harry's sombre voice, from deep within.

Ruth faltered for a moment then, plucking up her courage, slid the door open and popped her head in.

"Hello,"

Harry looked up from his desk, one hand holding a guaze-wrapped ice pack against his forehead. He looked exhausted and sore, his clothing rumpled and tie pulled loose around his neck. A few drops of blood stained the collar of his open shirt. Ruth felt her chest constrict a little, in worry.

"How are you?" she asked, not sure if he would bite at her for the question.

Harry just lowered the pack and red-stained gauze from his head, however, giving a short wince.

"Muddling through," he frowned, then winced again as the movement stretched the gash upon his left temple. It leaked blood.

"Harry..." Ruth murmured, reproachfully, knowing she shouldn't and that he was her boss – and that it was inappropriate both to chide him and to want to coddle him – but wholly unable to stop herself. "You should be in medical," she said, softly.

Harry shook his head, dabbing the blood away with his gauze.

"It's just a scratch. I take it you've been talking to Miss Portman?"

"She told me you wrapped up the op last night," Ruth stated, gaze flickering between Harry's hazel eyes and blood streaked forehead. "She also said you were smacked around the side of the head with a gun butt and refused medical treatment."

"It would have been a lot worse if backup hadn't got there in time. Two of the Tactical Assault Unit's officers were a lot worse," he added.

"That's no reason for you not to go to medical."

"Believe me, Ruth, medical have seen enough of my body to last a lifetime."

Ruth almost blushed, but the worry held it at bay.

"You should still go," she insisted.

"I'm fine."

"You could be concussed," she pointed out.

Harry lifted the icepack to his forehead again. "I have been concussed many times over the years, Miss Evershed," he told her, with a note of finality, "I know what it feels like and this is not a concussion, just a bloody sore head." He gave a soft groan and shifted the ice pack back over the wound.

Ruth hovered in the doorway, looking around the office. It was dimly lit from the lamp on his desk, rather than the overhead light, and as spotlessly clean as ever. Apart from a neat pack of files on the corner of his desk, and the first-aid kit strewn across it, all the surfaces were clear. All the shelves were neatly arranged, in the way they always were. Harry's way.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked him, though she knew what his answer would be.

"Yes. Just sore."

"Can I-?" Ruth started, then bit back her question. It wasn't appropriate. This was a vulnerable moment. He was sore. She was worried. They were both on territory which had always been considered strictly professional. But... she wanted to reach out.

A moment passed.

"Can you what, Ruth?" Harry asked, eventually, his voice different from how it had been earlier. Curious and sugary soft. He could have such a soft voice when he wanted to, thought Ruth, with a swallow.

"Can I help, in any way?" she asked, a little shyly.

Harry looked surprised but not displeased by her suggestion. After a moment, he nodded.

"I could do with some help getting these plasters on right," he admitted.

Wholeheartedly relieved that he had not said no, or laughed at her, Ruth nodded and stepped forwards into the room. Removing her hands from the doorframe, she started towards her boss, coming to stand at the side of his desk. Harry looked up at her with tired, slightly expectant eyes.

"What do you need?" she asked, nervously.

Harry turned his attention downwards and shuffled through the plasters of the first aid kit, until he found a gauze strip.

"I can't get them on straight. No mirror."

He could go to the bathrooms, Ruth thought, reaching out to take the plaster, registering that it was not the appropriate type for the wound he had sustained. But, perhaps, she thought, he would rather _she_ fixed him. God, she hoped he did. She hoped that he wanted her hands on him. That's where her hands wanted to be. They had given each other such little opportunity for contact, over these past months, but every glancing touch had been electric.

"This is useless," she eventually stated, clearing her throat, "the wound needs to be cleaned and closed up with steri-strips, beneath one of these."

Harry pulled a frown.

"It's hardly a 'wound', Ruth."

"It's deep enough to scar," she pointed out, wondering if Harry had been this cavalier about all of his injuries. If so, she thought, he must be absolutely covered in scars, beneath those clothes. The thought made her feel slightly heady. "If you want it to go away, I'd really advise going down to medical and having them stitch you up."

"I think I'm ready to sacrifice my modelling career, to avoid the lecture," Harry quipped, in return, and Ruth gave a half smile, despite herself.

It was a joke intended to lighten the mood and Harry had judged it perfectly. Moving a little closer, she picked through the first aid, kit, picking out the pieces she would need, for makeshift closure.

"I take it its the local anaesthetic you're not keen on?" she asked, picking sterile strips out of the first-aid box's contents, glancing at Harry out of the corner of her eye as she did.

Harry nodded.

"It always makes me feel light headed and I don't have time to be operating at half-capacity today. I need to finish up some reports and sit through a meeting with the DG before I can go home."

Ruth frowned but said nothing. Harry did not need or want to hear what a bad idea that was – or that he needed to rest. This was the man who had come straight back to work after being shot through the shoulder by Tom Quinn, after all. He was used to doing things his way and he ignored, point blank, anyone who told him to do otherwise. So, she just gathered the items she would need and turned back towards him.

"If you want me to do this," she cautioned, "then you have to let me do it properly," or do it yourself, she added, inside her head. She did not say it, however, because she was fairly sure that Harry actually wanted her here and she did not want to discourage that. Subconsciously or not, he wanted to be taken care of and she wanted (not at all subconsciously) to take care of him. "I need to disinfect it and use the right strips," she told him.

Harry made a half-hearted attempt at looking vexed.

"Well go on, then. Get it over with."

Ruth stepped forwards and took the ice pack away from his hand, allowing her to get a better look at his forehead. Harry let her, relinquishing his control over the situation and sitting back in his chair with a slight wince. As she saw the cut properly, Ruth winced too.

"Harry, this is deeper than I thought..."

"Ruth..." There was a tone of command in his voice which told her that they had reached the end of arguing about it. It was her or he would do it himself. Medical was not to be mentioned again.

"I know," she sighed and regarded the wound for a few seconds more, before deciding exactly how she would approach the situation. "Okay," she nodded. "Stay still." Her heart was thundering in her chest as she selected one of the antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit and opened it, turning back to Harry. "And there is alcohol in these wipes. This is going to hurt," she informed him, needlessly. "A lot."

"Don't worry," he winced. "I was once informed that I'm a tough, cold-hearted bastard."

Another little mood breaker, for her benefit. (He never really did that for the others).

Ruth hid a smile.

"Of course you are. I forget."

Lifting the wipe, she moved forwards and tentatively began to wash the blood away from the torn skin. How did she find herself in these situations, she wondered, as she felt Harry move beneath her, forehead tensing at the pain of her touch, breath warming the side of her arm, where his head was turned. Her chest was only half a foot or so away from his face, she noted, feeling her cheeks heat very slightly – feeling incredibly glad that she was wearing one of her cotton bras, rather than one of the laces ones which would reveal her body's response, to their proximity. How did she always end up in semi-intimate encounters with her boss? She supposed she would have avoided them more, if she had not been so in love with him.

Running the soft wipe up his temple, she cleaned the pink trails of dried blood from his skin, all the way back to his hairline, where it looked like Harry had had a go scrubbing it away with dry tissues. All he had really succeeded in doing, however, was smearing the colour more across him. It came away easily, however, leaving only peach skin in the wipe's wake. He was very soft, Ruth mused, as she ran her thumb very gently over the edge of the wound, checking for debris. She had always expected him to be tougher, somehow, but underneath all the bravado he was just flesh and bone. So very human.

As she selected another wipe and cleaned the wound itself, Harry's composure slipped slightly. He flinched as she parted the wound to clean out the torn any debris left within it.

"Sorry," Ruth told him, quietly.

Harry told her not to worry about it but she noticed he gripped the arm of his chair a little more tightly as she continued. He did not make a noise, however, not one, even as she squeezed antiseptic into the cut. Perhaps he could not let himself, Ruth thought, feeling him tense beneath her fingertips. He had a reputation to uphold, of course, even on front of her.

She could really not have cared less, however, about the reputation. Up close, all she could see was Harry the man, as opposed to Harry Pearce, her Section Head; Harry Pearce, boss spook. Harry the man was not so very different, except, perhaps, just a little more exposed. She held the cut together while she opened the bandage strips with her free hand and her teeth, moving carefully and quickly – because Harry would not flinch or pull away, but he was definitely hurting – and pressed them into place, holding the skin tight. Two more strips and he was patched together as best he could be, given the circumstances.

"There you go," she said softly, rubbing away a fleck of blood she had missed the first time. "It really needed stitches but I've done the best I can. It's closed up fairly well."

Harry looked vaguely relieved that it was over.

"So I'm not going to die then?" he asked, prompting a smile.

Ruth shook her head.

"I don't think so. There is, of course, a slight chance of brain damage..."she joked.

"I suppose I'll have to rely on my good looks then."

"I suppose you will," Ruth chuckled back, then paused. Soft warmth was filling the air around them and, all of a sudden, it felt safer to say what she wanted to. It felt okay for her to let him know, just a little, how she felt. "I think you'll just about manage," she told him, softly, heart beating, mind racing.

Lowering her hand from his warm forehead, she leant back against his desk. Their eyes held in a very long, rather intense gaze. Warmth, thought Ruth, reading it in her boss's eyes. Warmth and delight at what she had said. She knew it was stupid, flirting with him, but what harm could there really be? Even if it wasn't going to go anywhere, it made them both a little happier, for the moment. It was not like she was admitting to being desperately, madly in love with him, or anything. Though she was, wholeheartedly.

He was wonderful, she thought, as he folded his hands in his lap and thanked her for helping him. He was fantastic at letting contact drag on and at rooting her to the spot with those almost-golden hazel eyes of his. He really wasn't all that bad looking, either, not the type she usually went for but since when had Harry fallen into a 'type' anyway. What would his type possibly be? Defender, protector, soldier, almost-golden-colleague/boss... hero? He was a hero, she thought. He was just like the heroes in the stories she read, as a younger woman, only he did not get the glory, just the quiet honour and maybe, just maybe, the girl.

A little rush of excited nerves fluttered through her. She would have him in a heartbeat, if the situation had been simpler, if Harry had not been her boss and their lives had not been so desperately intense. She would still have him, she supposed, if she could be sure that this was not just an amusing diversion on his end – because she stood to lose everything, if it was and they ended. She was becoming surer of that every day, however. The way she caught him watching her, just occasionally... the softness in the way he talked to her when they were alone.

They could be a couple, couldn't they? It was possible.

Ruth let her fingers trail across the desk as she pulled her hand back, remembering the way his hand felt, over hers, that day on the bus. He had been so completely missed the response she had expected of him. But they felt so nice against each other, she reminded herself. Strange, but nice. And their chemistry was wonderful. She could handle a little bit of inadequate social timing, surely?

"I should go," Ruth finally said, speaking it aloud to try and convince herself.

"Busy day?"

"Paperwork," she explained, with a smile. "And the section of that report you need, for GCHQ."

"Ah, thrilling."

"Indeed."

A long moment.

"Any plans, for lunch?"

Ruth gave a little shrug.

"Not really." She didn't usually do anything too much. A walk to the river, sometimes. A sit on one of the benches. A try to find something edible, from one of the cafes which did not cost the Earth. "Maybe I'll be brave and try one of the new stalls, down by the river."

Harry nodded, watching her as she stood and brushed her skirt flat, taking a step back towards the door.

"I'll see you later," she smiled, then nodded towards his head. "If you feel dizzy or nauseous you should call medical."

Harry nodded his head slightly.

They stood, watching each other for another moment, then Ruth cleared her throat and turned on her heel, heading towards the door. She had almost reached it before Harry's voice suddenly rang out, catching her mid step.

"Ruth?" he asked, with such an air of expectation that Ruth turned on the spot to look back at him.

"Yes?"

Harry faltered, his eyes taking on a strange expression which, if Ruth didn't know him better, she would have called nervous. Was this what she thought it was, she asked herself, heart skipping suddenly within her chest? It looked like Harry wanted to ask her something and the conversation had been turning over her plans for lunch. Was he possibly about to ask her out? And to what, if he was? To lunch? To coffee? For a drink? For tumble in his office, before the others arrived? Bloody hell – was she ready for any of that?

"I, uh," Ruth's boss cleared his throat, leaning forwards in his chair and folding his hands on top of the table. "I was wondering..."

"Yes?" she prompted, breathlessly. _Yes_, she thought, inside. Yes, scratch the earlier dithering, it didn't matter if she was ready for this. She wanted this. Optimism had sprung up again inside her, a hope for something more. If he asked, she would say yes. She would say yes in an instant, whichever the question.

"I..." Harry stared at her for a second longer, vulnerability flitting across his face, then his face changed and he lowered his eyes again. "Sorry. Never mind," he shook his head. "It was nothing."

_Nothing_?

Ruth blinked.

Across the way, Harry cleared his throat.

"It was something I wanted to ask you, about that report from last week," he lied, half-heartedly. "But its not important, now..." he gave a twitch of a wry smile, looking back down at the desktop, gathering the first aid items into a neat pile. "It's fine."

Ruth felt her lips part very slightly, surprise washing through her. Harry Pearce, her boss, Harry, who she had been falling in love with for months, had just tried to ask her out. She couldn't quite believe it – either that he had tried, or that he had failed. He was always so brave, so brilliant, so clever. And she was just silly ditsy Ruth. She couldn't even believe why he would want to ask her out, never mind why he was so worried over what she might answer.

Her heart was racing.

He had backed out of it, but he had been about to ask her out. He liked her. He _liked_ her!

Oh, god, she was acting like a teenager again.

They were both acting like teenagers.

This was completely ridiculous.

It could never work. It didn't make sense.

But it felt good.

Very good.

"Okay," she started, careful to sound nonchalant, careful not to make a fuss of this because the last thing she wanted to do was dissuade Harry from trying again. "Well, I should probably go through and get started," she told him. "Plenty to be getting on with."

Her boss nodded, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

"Thanks for help with the plasters," he offered, lamely.

"You're welcome," Ruth told him, curling her fingers around the doorframe as she watched him from the other side of the room. "Is it okay if I get started on Zaf's legend, for next week, after I'm finished up the report?" she asked, giving him something to respond to other than the intense awkwardness in the room. Diffuse the tension, Ruth, she told herself. "I know you weren't planning on putting anything together until tomorrow, but if we're sending him undercover with our Al Qaeda splinter group, in two weeks, he needs to be airtight. These guys are shipping in bomb components. Who knows what weaponry they've already got hold of."

Harry nodded, looking just a little more sure now that they were back on the subject of work. "He'll need two contacts in the field," he told her, "in case they check up on his background. We have a sleeper, in a house in Romford, who might be a fit for his legend's aunt."

"I'll check and see if there are any better options then contact her."

"I'll free up Zaf's schedule tomorrow so that you can have some more time to run through it with him. That is, if you have the time."

"I have the time."

They watched each other for a moment, Harry still looking slightly apologetic, Ruth trying to hide her inner jubilation.

Harry _liked_ her.

Eventually, she decided that enough quiet gloating was enough and gave a nod towards the door.

"Right, I'll get on," she told him, heading to the door. "And if you, um..." she paused, clearing her throat, nervously. She wasn't sure if she should really do this but she wanted to and the tenderness of a few minutes ago was still lingering, tantalisingly in the air. "If you remember what it is that you wanted to ask – the thing you forgot, that was," she breathed out, giving a little nod in his direction, "you should call me."

Harry stared for a few moments.

"Okay," he managed, eventually, looking so completely out of his comfort zone that Ruth had to hide her smile by biting the inside of her lip.

"I'll see you on the Grid, Harry," she told him softly, as she ducked out the room.

"See you on the Grid," he spoke quietly, after her.

Maybe they could work, Ruth thought as she smilingly walked away. Maybe, by some miracle, they could make something of themselves. Her logical mind told her that this was a very stupid idea – that they could never work, because of their work environment – but no person can be governed solely by logic and Ruth had spent so long under its sensible spell that she felt rather inclined to ignore it. Her heart was telling her that two people would not click so well together if they were not compatible, if there was no possibility of success. And this was hardly a marriage proposal, she reminded herself. Harry had not even managed to ask her out for a coffee, yet. But maybe with time... Yes, Ruth decided, making her way back to her desk and flipped on her system. Time was everything.

.


	4. Chapter 4

_Set season 5 between episode 4 and 5_

_._

_Chapter 4 _

.

Havensworth hotel was almost silent in the aftermath of the talks. The grounds below were empty. The delegates and their political entourage had all headed home. As Ruth watched, from the uppermost floor of the building, she saw the last few cars disappearing down the winding path, away from the building. The conference was over. That was that. All was done.

Looking over the abandoned lawn, Ruth could almost believe that she was standing in a ghost building or that she was the last survivor of some great apocalyptic event. There was no one else around. It was so empty. She watched too much bad television, she thought as she stood by the half-open window, tempting in a breeze. This was not an adventure story, or one of horror, though sometimes it felt like one. This was her life – the one she had chosen to lead. She had chosen to be the one standing at an empty hotel window, at the end of a series of peace talks, exhausted beyond anything she had ever felt in her life and having saved a life but done nothing really in the grand scheme of things. This was just a show, as the politicians had said. Nothing that would make any real difference. The ineffectiveness of political agreements, of course, was not really what was distressing Ruth. What was really distressing Ruth was the lack of sleep she had been having, over the past week or so - and, of course, the reason behind it.

Harry. It was all about Harry. And one stupid decision, on her part.

She should never have said 'yes' to his request for dinner. She knew that, now. At the time, however, she had just been so delighted that he had asked and that her growing feelings were reciprocated. Up on that rooftop, with the Charlie Chaplin reference and his beautiful eyes, she had just melted. He had been just as nervous as he had been the first time he tried to ask her to lunch. And ten times as sweet. Who knew Harry could be sweet?

Thrilled and flattered, she had thrown aside all of the millions of reasons she had held herself back, before. She had forgotten about reality and the way things were. She had forgotten that it mattered that Harry was her boss and that, no matter how easy and equal they could become, in private, the others would only ever see it from the outside. She had forgotten that they would only see a junior analyst, sleeping with her Section Head, and how shallow it would make her look. And how it would undermine Harry in the worst way.

And then reality had broken and she had remembered it all.

She couldn't take the talk. She couldn't be the one who was whispered about, around the water cooler or be the office joke. She wasn't as thick-skinned as Harry. She was not used to 'enduring worse'. She was just Ruth Evershed, slightly ditsy and very naive analyst, and she should never have said yes. No, in fact, she should never have even let it get so far that he had asked her. She should have nipped it in the bud. Things had been fine between them. What was happening, now – all of the discomfort and the longing and the awkwardness – was her fault. How could she have been so stupid? Every logical ounce of her brain had told her they couldn't work. And Ruth always followed her own logic. What was the bloody point in having a brain, otherwise, after all?

Footsteps on the carpet behind her drew her eyes from the window and her mind from its reverie. Turning, she came face to face with Adam and their boss, walking slowly in her direction. As they caught sight of her, they continued on, past the door of room 205 which they had been using as an operations base, and up to her side. Harry looked every bit as tired as she did, Ruth realised, as he paced closer in his Section Chief's wake. Perhaps she had not been the only one suffering from sleepless nights.

The thought had the simultaneous effect of making her feel tremendously guilty and enormously foolish, for thinking she had ever been important enough for Harry to lose sleep over. He was a little torn up about her choice to end it, she could tell, but she doubted it was sleepless nights material. In the long run, she was a failed conquest, nothing more. Harry's continued interest in her – the soft, hurt eyes he swung her way when he thought she wasn't looking – was probably more out of injured pride than anything else. He had never lost when he had set himself to getting something before. It was just bruised ego, Ruth tried to convince herself, nothing more.

Except, even she knew that wasn't strictly true. This was more than a conquest, for Harry. When they had talked, during their date, his eyes had flashed at all the right parts. His smiles had been as genuine as Ruth had ever seen them and the fleeting touches he had given seemed to affect him just as much as they affected her. He wanted more. As he had moved to settle the bill there was a moment where Ruth objected and had asked to pay her share. He had just shaken his head and told her, with one of those endless smiles, that when she plucked up the courage to ask him out to dinner in return, then she could foot the bill.

He had wanted there to be more – more of them, more of their gentle smiles and almost too gentle flirting, more talk about what they wanted from their future and more of that strange thrilling feeling when their wants turned out to be the same. They had fit so beautifully, Ruth thought, before returning to the painful memory of Malcolm coming to her desk the morning after and the sick feeling in her stomach when she learned that everyone knew. And that she wasn't nearly ready to deal with that – or any of it. She had jumped in far, far too soon. She had got carried away in how good he made her feel and hadn't stopped to think how they were actually going to make it work. And Ruth could not function, without a plan in place. She had never been an impulsive sort of girl.

Coming to a halt, a few feet away, Harry hung back behind Adam as they all greeted one another.

"That's the last of them all off the hotel grounds," Adam sighed, motioning to the window behind Ruth and the long driveway. "Thank god it's over."

Harry seconded his judgement with a mumbled, "Thank god indeed."

Ruth expressed her relief that things had not gotten more out of hand than they already had done.

"I've written up the synopsis, to send over to the Home Secretary," she told Adam.

"Good. I've got Ros on debriefing the staff."

"Does she need any help?"

"No, they should be good and terrorised by the time I'm back downstairs."

"And everything else is under control?"

"Everything is covered," Harry answered, this time. "Jo and Ros have personnel and politicians, Malcolm's having a field day gathering all of our recordings, and Zaf is having a nightmare helping him."

As he finished, there was a strange silence in the air, an expectation, perhaps that he might continue and make some comment about her own contribution to the state of things, but he didn't and, after five seconds or so, the expectation just became awkward.

Ruth looked back to the window.

"Right." Adam gave a loud clear of his throat. "I need to pack so I'll see you both downstairs, for our lift back."

Ruth nodded, trepidation growing in her belly, knowing, as well as Harry did, that it was just an excuse to leave the two of them together.

"I'll see you at four," Harry confirmed, to the younger man.

As Adam padded off, Ruth felt the panic which had been brewing in the pit of her stomach reach fever pitch.

"I think he's eager to get home, for Wes," Harry stated, softly, moving to stand a little closer – cleverly keeping his movements sideways and non-direct, to make it a little less threatening.

"Understandably so."

Side by side, they looked out over the gardens.

Despite Harry's best intentions, it was not an entirely platonic experience, standing next to him. As Ruth stood by the window, feeling the air shift from his movement, the hair on the back of her neck pricked up, goosebumps trailing along her bare forearms. Proximity had always been exciting, because of its rarity, but – over the last few weeks – their touches had become almost electric. Before, it had all been based on imagination and anticipation. Now, she could actually remember how it had felt when his fingers slipped around hers as he helped her out of the car, or how his palm had rested in the small of her back as he stood behind her arriving at the restaurant. She could remember the solidness of his arm, from how her fingers had felt against it, and the softness of his lips as he had murmured against her cheek – a gentle goodnight that wasn't quite a kiss but wasn't just a goodnight, either.

He had been spectacularly wonderful, that night, but it just couldn't work. He couldn't be hers because she was not strong or brave enough to be his match and she couldn't bear to be seen as someone he had to protect. At the worst, it could actually endanger Harry. Imagine if she was ever used as leverage against him...

They could never work. They could never be. So why would her heart not yield to her head and admit it?

"Did you get any sleep, in the end?" Harry asked her softly, graciously not pretending that he wanted to talk about work.

Ruth swallowed and gave a movement of her head which could have been a shake or a nod.

"It was fine. Management enforced the peace soon enough."

Harry nodded, expression unreadable, eyes fathomless and dark.

They stood for a long few seconds and Ruth tried valiantly not to blurt out some excuse to slink back to her room or their makeshift HQ, to seek out backup, because she didn't think she could face the intensity of the conversation that was coming. That was not what they needed to do. They had been avoiding this conversation like the plague for over a week. They needed to talk, if things were to get back to where they were before any of this. Curiously enough, however, Harry - usually so eager to attack a problem directly - did not plunge forwards into discussing them. Instead, he walked forwards another pace and leant against the window's railing, directly beside her, looking down over the patio below.

"How long do you think it will last?" he asked quietly.

"The agreement?" Ruth asked, glancing over to him.

Harry nodded. "Yes."

"Oh," Ruth snapped her attention back forwards. "I couldn't say. It all seems a little fruitless, doesn't it?"

"I suppose all the first steps towards these things seem fruitless, at the time," Harry pointed out, softly.

A small level of indignation rose up within Ruth and she turned back to her boss, suddenly eager to prove she was not naive.

"Yes, but so many treaties and agreements have been signed, Harry. The problem is, they only stand for the current government. When the next coup happens, when the next façade of democracy takes over, this deal will mean as little as the ones which come before it. It always ends in war. Never peace. People are inherently flawed and failing."

In the silence after her speech, she could feel the weight of cynicism sitting heavily in the air. Next to her, Harry shifted from one foot to the other and let his eyes wander over the grounds a little more.

"I suppose," he said, eventually, "it all comes down to whether you think Africa will ever be ready for peace. There is little good in deals and treaties if even one of the parties involved think that it's not worth the effort."

Ruth didn't think that was entirely fair. She had meant that the deals were doomed to fail, not that they hadn't been started with the best of intentions. Explaining as much, however, to Harry, only brought a sad smile to his lips.

"These things are always doomed, if they aren't given a chance to flourish," he told her. "No intention ever made anything of itself until it was given room to grow."

Suddenly, with a sick feeling of realisation, Ruth knew he was no longer (or, perhaps, never had been) talking about the African summit. Harry must have noticed her realisation, because he gave her a few long moments to compose herself before he next looked over. When he did, however, the softness in his eyes almost made her break all over again.

"To make something that is worth having," he told her gently, "you have to want it more than anything else. You have to fight harder, be braver."

"You speak of bravery like its an easy choice, Harry," Ruth whispered, before she really had a chance to stop herself. "It's not easy to be brave."

"I didn't say it was easy," he replied, lowering his eyes shyly. "Just that, sometimes, it is worth it."

He was asking her to give him a chance. Could she do that, Ruth wondered? God, she just didn't know anymore. She wanted so much to have some contact – to let herself fall into him like she always did in her fantasies. She wanted to take a kiss and feel him strong against her but she also did not want anyone else to hurt them and they couldn't be together without the risk of getting hurt. It all came down to wanting something more than anything else, like Harry had said. Was it worth the hurt and ridicule – the talk and whispers, which would very well drive them back apart – just to be close to him? Sometimes, in gloriously close moments like these, she thought it might be.

Want you, she thought, so loudly that the words almost fell from her lips. But I'm so scared. So scared to risk it all on something that might not even last.

There would be no way of taking it back, for example, if she leant forwards and kissed him now. It would be wonderful. She would feel wonderful. He would feel so right against her and they could fall back to one of the many hotel rooms here and push into one another, around and against one another. They could lose themselves completely but abandon was only ever temporary. Sooner or later, they would have to emerge from their cocoon of togetherness, where Ruth was absolutely sure they would do well, and out into the clamour of the real world, where she was not so confident of their chances. However much she wanted him, in her personal life, she didn't think she could ever be so brave as to throw all of her chips in on one hand – on one man – even one so wonderful as Harry.

But she did love him. So much.

She hurt with it.

"Maybe, one day, they'll be ready for peace," she said quietly. Maybe, one day, she would be ready to be brave – when she was a little more sure of his investment in all of this. She couldn't take the risk of losing her career and, therefore, her friends should he decide it wasn't all he had expected it to be.

Harry's eyes glittered, momentarily, so full of hope that Ruth could not help but reach out and touch him. Sliding her her fingers out across the railing, she pressed against the side of his. Harry did not react much. Just gave a tiny press back.

"I'm sorry about the other day, Harry," she told him quietly. "I shouldn't have snapped like I did."

"You didn't snap-," Harry started to tell her, but Ruth overrode him.

"-I did. And I'm sorry for that. Dinner was lovely, I just-," she cut herself off, throat suddenly right. What did one say, to the man she had hurt – the man she loved completely but did not quite trust with the rest of her life? "I'm just not..."

"Ruth..." he slipped his hand over hers before she really realised he was doing.

Instinctively, she began to back away, but the heat of the contact froze her to the spot. Fingers sliding over fingers, curling around fingers, his palm was against the back of her hand. Solid, warm contact. Beautiful against her. She could feel his pulse in the underside of his wrist and the warmth radiating off of his. Neither of them were particularly physical people. In the assembled years they had known each other, Ruth would imagine they had touched each other about twenty or thirty times. This, then, was an enormous gift from a man like Harry. He played emotions close to his chest. He played contact close to his heart. But when he gave it out, it was always perfect.

As Ruth's eyes slid closed, his index finger curled beneath hers, finger-pad pressing into the soft of her palm. His hands were beautiful. So much bigger than hers, so much stronger but touching her so gently.

Turning her head, she found Harry's shoulder, only a few inches away and let her cheek brush ever so slightly against it. It was an almost-embrace; oddly suited, to the pair of them. They were a story of almost, thought Ruth, standing breathing in the scent of him amongst the scent of the hotel and the memory of what had happened here. Almost-kisses, almost-relationship, almost-encounters in late night hotel rooms. Almost there. Never yet in the same place at the same time.

"I'm sorry," she sighed.

"...I know," he told her quietly, as she gripped his fingertips. "So am I. I knew you weren't ready and I'm sorry if I pushed too fast." His face was turned in, towards her head, warm breath brushing against the top of her hair.

They way they were standing was lovely but Ruth could not push away the knowledge that they were just down the corridor from the team's temporary headquarters and, as great as it felt, she did not want the memory of the embrace to be tainted by the shame of discovery. So, half-heartedly, she pulled back, leaning away from him again. She left their hands connected, however.

When she opened her eyes again, Harry was watching her, eyes warm and completely sincere.

"I just want you to know," he told her, "whenever you are ready... _if_ ever you are ready," he rephrased. "I'll..."

He didn't seem to have any words to finish the sentence, so Ruth just squeezed his hand instead.

"Thank you," she told him, softly.

The contact had been wonderful, the sentiment of his assurance oddly illuminating. She had always expected him to be one for drawing back from emotional discussion. Yet here he was, offering to wait for her – if she had read his statement correctly and she was almost sure she had. Maybe, said this tiny voice in the back of her head, maybe her doubts had been based on false assumptions. Maybe Harry was more committed than she had thought. Maybe, with time...

She didn't dare hope, though, or think about it for too long. Her mind was still too full with sensation. Harry, against her. She never could think straight when they were touching.

"I should probably go back through," she suggested, bringing the subject back around to work because if she thought of him for a moment longer, she was going to throw aside all sense and caution, swing around and kiss him where they stood.

"Of course."

"I need to finish up this report and I don't want to keep them waiting."

"Waiting is something we spooks are particularly good at," Harry pointed out, quietly.

And breaking each other's hearts into little tiny pieces, Ruth added, to herself. Harry had always been good with women. He had always chased women, but he wanted her seriously enough to risk making this show. Maybe she should not have expected them to fail so readily. Maybe, in time, she could learn to trust and be braver and maybe then they could try and repair what he had offered and she had broken. She just needed time. Time to get used to the idea that there could be peace, or redemption, in wartime.

"I'll be up later," she told him, sliding her fingers free from under his and feeling strangely bereft once they were gone. Lifting her eyes to his, she gave him a taut smile.

Self denial. Self control. Don't kiss him, she told herself, don't kiss him now because you don't trust him yet and you can't be brave enough to make this last. You were foolish to jump in fast before, she told herself. Trust will come, though. One day, she told herself, she would be brave enough and then maybe they would be a real possibility. Her heart had to believe that. Why would two people feel so good together if they weren't meant to be something, after all?

With an almost unfathomable amount of will power, Ruth forced herself to step back and away.

Harry's voice followed her as she began to step back, down the hall.

"I'll be here,"

Whether he meant at the temporary HQ or just there, waiting for her, in general, Ruth could not be sure. In her heart, however, she could not help but hope for the latter.

.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N – Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and I hope you enjoy (or at least appreciate) the new chapter. My apologies about the length and the angst, but I thought it was necessary to portray Ruth's thoughts at that time in the series. Don't worry, it should lighten up again soon. –Silver._

_Set series 8 between episodes 2 and 3_

_._

_Chapter 5_

.

They never got the time they needed.

No more than a month passed between that day in Havensworth, where he had told her to be brave, and the day they were cruelly torn apart. The awful part was that, just before it happened, Ruth had been starting to be braver. She had allowed herself to spend time again, alone in Harry's presence. She had even allowed them to touch again, fleeting little touches of hands as they handed over papers and files. She stayed late on the Grid, at night, to be near him and when Jo playfully mentioned that they spent more time together than the rest of the team combined, she had not panicked. Quiet calmly, she had just told the younger officer that Harry was good company. Admittedly, they were not very big steps, but at least they had been in the right direction.

What had happened next, none of them could have foreseen; Cotterdam, the lynch mob, Harry trying to take the blame that should not have fallen on either of them. Ruth had been so incredibly scared and he had told her that it would be okay. And then it hadn't been. It had been as far from okay as things could get because Harry was suddenly in danger and the only thing she could do was lay her life down in his' place. There had been no decision to make, really. He could fight the enemy, she couldn't and she wouldn't let them use her against him.

The irony of the situation had stung. Ruth had thrown aside a month and a half where she could have been with him because she had been afraid to trust him with her future. And then she had thrown her future all away anyway – her life, her friends, her job and her family – to save him.

The pain of leaving had been almost unbearable; the joy in her heart at finally tasting his lips, coupled with the agony of knowing that this first kiss would be their last. The thought of never seeing him again was almost too terrible for her to comprehend, at the time, but it was a terror which only got worse with each passing day. For the next two years, she drifted around the continent, searching for some place which would reach out to her and feel like home, but everywhere she went was missing something... missing someone.

The loss was a constant pain, at first, but over time it faded back to become part of her. She learned to cope with it and, though she never overcame it, it reached the point at which she could consider settling down somewhere. She found a pretty, quiet corner of the world, where she thought she could waste away the rest of her life. She found a pretty, quiet man, with a pretty, loving child and let herself skirt around the periphery of their world – working her way into their hearts but never truly letting them into her own.

Eventually, the part of her which would always be an optimist, told her that this was her opportunity to start over and, after six months or so of dithering, Ruth started to accept it. She started to let George in a little. She started to care for the boy like family. She was only just starting to think of her future with them when the world came crashing down again. And, again, she was ripped from everything she knew.

Death. So much death and pain.

The boy escaped. Nico, the child she had tried so hard to consider her son but never really could, (because he had George's dark brown eyes and her son would have hazel). George was not so lucky. Ruth watched him die, wracked with guilt and shame for having allowed them into her life, allowed them to become tangled her web of lies. They had never signed on for this, she told herself, through her tears. They had lived a simple, elegant life. They had not known who she really was, when they let her in. What happened to them, then, was her fault.

In the hours after George's death – as his son was taken from her – Ruth had felt sick with guilt. She yelled, she screamed, she cried until her body ached. She threw the blame around, inside her head, trying desperately to place it where it belonged; becoming even angrier as it always fell back to her and Harry. How could she have let them ever get close, she tortured herself. If he had not loved her then she could not have been used as leverage against him. George and Nico would never have been hurt. Everything that was wrong came down to her stupid choice to say 'yes'. (Never again would she make such an impulsive decision). If she hadn't let her stupid infatuation grow out of hand, or encouraged Harry into reciprocating, then she wouldn't have had to leave in the first place. She would never have met George and Nico. George would not be dead and his boy would not be an orphan. It was her fault for starting this and Harry's fault for letting her. They should have known that they were never meant for that – that together they could only bring pain.

Despite the rage, when they met beside Millennium Bridge, in the days after George's death, she felt the familiar stirring of emotion in her chest. It was strange that, though she blamed him and hated him, in part, for what had happened, she could still love him. It was a situation she had never before found herself in. And that terrified her.

Walking across the bridge, things had been okay at first. Ruth had managed to hold back her unease. They had talked in the only way they knew how to, with each other – never airing their grievances fully, holding back, holding in, holding away. Harry had gently tried to make conversation, to ask how she was and assure her he was going to try his best to make the situation better, but Ruth had just pushed him away. The strange mixture of feelings in her chest, when he was close, was too confusing. She loved him. She hated him. She was terrified and grieving and overcome with shame. It was all too much.

Then, Harry had made some oblique offer of her to coming back to work for him and all of her composure had shattered. She had laughed out loud, not quite able to believe her own stupidity. She had come to the bridge hoping, (maybe expecting) that Harry wanted to apologise. She knew it wouldn't fix things but she hadn't wanted that. She had just wanted him to open up, to let her know what he was feeling because that was the only thing that was going to make the situation seem real, to her. But instead of sharing his distress or trying to talk about what had happened, Harry had just tried to shove things back to the way they used to be – demonstrating, once and for all, how little he understood about her, or how normal people were supposed to work.

How could he think there was some quick fix for this, Ruth had raged, internally. How could he think they could go back to what they were, before? They couldn't. Not now, not after everything that had happened. They had been through too much. Harry should have bloody well known that.

Making some noise of exasperation, she had turned away from him, causing him to reach out and grab her elbow. He was trying, he pleaded with her, eyes hurt and confused. He was trying, despite his limitations. But she could not see past the anger. Unmoved and sarcastic, she snapped some retort and walked away, moving to lean against the railings further down the bridge where she could stare out over the dark brown-grey waters of the Thames and seethe in peace. Behind her, Harry had watched for a moment, eyes endlessly hurt. Then he had turned and walked away too. Giving up.

As he left, Ruth had lifted her head to watch him go – part of her relieved, part of her angry that he had not stayed and fought harder for her. Her head hurt with it all. She was angry, ashamed, hurting; torn between the twin desires to hurt Harry and to beg him to hold her. She hated him. She loved him. He had done the right thing, in an impossible situation, and that both drew her in and repulsed her simultaneously.

How could he have been so heartless?

How could he have done anything else?

Underneath the anger, of course, she knew that Harry could not have risked the Uranium falling into the hands of those madmen. She knew, as well, that as soon as she and her family had been captured their fates had been sealed. No matter what choice Harry had made, they were all supposed to die in that dark room. Really, she thought, they were lucky to have only escaped with one casualty. Still, Harry was the one who had said the words which caused her husband to be shot. All circumstances aside, the fact that she still loved him was reprehensible. And she was furious at herself for it. And at the world. And at Harry, for being Harry.

.

She sat, for the next day or so, alone in her MI5 safehouse, watching the twenty-four hour news channel and staring out the window. From the reports, something big was going down in the energy sector. The news bulletins were arranged to cause the least amount of panic, but Ruth saw photographs of all the right people in government heading into buildings together, panicked looks upon their faces, and she knew something was up. Harry and his people would be scurrying about London, trying to fix it, she thought, watching the rain slide down the windows in a pathetic fallacy to her plight. They would be throwing life and limb on the line as she sat here, bemoaning her misfortune. The thought made her feel a little foolish for wallowing and, for that reason, when Joanna Portman called her to meet and talk, she accepted. Whatever little part she could play, to aid them in their troubles, she would.

Taking her old bus route into town felt strange, but not quite as strange as meeting Jo. The young woman had shorn her hair in concession to the hours of the job and had grown leaner and harder in Ruth's absence. Grown up, Ruth thought, watching the control in her eyes as she approached. Jo had become a spy, like the rest of them.

Stepping up, the young spy sat next to her, on the steps of some unobtrusive red-brick square, not too far from Horseferry road. She told her what was happening, that their country was in trouble and that Harry was locked in to thinking he had to make moral compromises in order to stop it – locked into guilt over what had happened to Ruth. Putting on the biggest, bluest eyes Ruth had ever seen, Jo asked for her help in pulling Harry back from the shadows. At first, offended on both her and Harry's behalf, Ruth had baulked and tried to back out of it but the young officer put up a logical argument and, after she had left and Ruth sat alone on the cold steps afterwards, some form of understanding finally began to form in her head.

Their situation was horrible but Harry had done what he needed to. Her anger at him, while valid, was beginning to get counter-productive For him to do what he needed to do – and Ruth knew he was needed, to protect this country, she would not have faked her death to protect him, otherwise – he needed to hear her forgiveness. He needed confirmation that he had made the right choice. And, whatever anger Ruth was harbouring for him, she knew he _had_ made the right choice.

Within minutes, acceptance had led to begrudging forgiveness and forgiveness led to a need to express itself. Leaving the steps, where she had talked to Jo, Ruth sought Harry out along the embankment, finding him around lunchtime at a spot they had used to stand together. Walking up beside him and looking into his eyes, she told him that they needed to talk. Side by side, they had both made their apologies, her expressing that it wasn't fair of her to blame him, Harry expressing that he understood and that he was sorry too, for everything. Afterwards, the pair of them stood for a while, in almost-comfortable silence. It was not much of a conversation but, with their wounds and angers both to fresh to work through, there was nothing else to say for the moment. Together, they had just stood watching the river for a while longer, both feeling sorry and wishing things could be different – both wishing 'sorry' could solve everything – then Ruth had quietly dismissed herself and Harry had gone back to work.

For him, at least, their conversation seemed to have solved some things. Whatever had been holding him back at work seemed to be holding him back no longer. There were no more plaintive visits from his staff - something which Ruth was glad of as the next one to come would have been Ros and she wasn't entirely sure she could cope with that intervention. MI5's operation to secure a gas supplier seemed to have been successful, as the days passed and gas continued to run through British pipes. Watching on, from the outside, Ruth saw the worried faces disappear from her twenty-four hour news screens, replaced with other worried faces, worrying on different and less threatening matters. She watched a bulletin where Home Secretary announced an advantageous new deal they had made, with Russia, and heard some of the keywords Harry had told her about years ago – the ones they used to reassure the public that all was okay. Oddly enough, she felt more isolated sitting on that couch, watching it from the outside, than she had done when she was part of the service, part of keeping the secret.

As the week dribbled by and Friday morning dawned, she received a call from Jo, asking how she was and if she felt up for spending the weekend at her family's cottage in the Cotswalds. _It's not good for you to be alone right now_, the young officer told Ruth seriously, _and there's something I have to ask you_.

Ruth knew what Jo wanted to ask, of course. It was what Harry had intimated, the other day. It was what he had called to ask yesterday morning, before she had told him she was busy and put the phone back down in its cradle. There would always be a place for her, at Thames House, if she wanted it.

But did she want it? Ruth asked herself. That was the question.

Over the last two days, she had grudgingly come to the conclusion that she probably did. She wanted to return to something she knew, something she had once been proud of doing. She wanted to return to working alongside Jo, even if the rest of the team was gone now. She wanted to have at least one stable aspect to her life, amidst the grief and emotional confusion. Harry being there complicated matters but, if she didn't take the job, what else, realistically, was she to do? She supposed she could get a job as an administrator, somewhere. Going back to GCHQ was impossible, as there might still be people there who recognised her and Ruth Evershed was supposed to be six feet under, after drowning herself in the river. Come to think of it, Ruth thought, she did not even know what sort of legend she would be living under, or if her previous qualifications would be available. Going back to Five would be the neatest and tidiest of the options. And perhaps, she told herself, she deserved the guilt and discomfort of being near Harry. Perhaps that was penance for what she had brought to George and Nico.

But was she really seeking to redeem herself through work, Ruth wondered as she stood on the phone to Jo, or was her desire to go back to Thames House based on subconscious, selfish motives. Did she want to return to Harry's team for atonement or for comfort? And, if her answer to that question was the latter, could she justify going back at all? After all, people who had done what she did surely did not deserve comfort.

It was all so confusing. Her emotional and her logical answers differed – she loved Harry, she hated Harry; she wanted to go back, she wasn't sure if she could go back – but she was lonely and she could not stand the thought of another day in her empty safehouse So, she agreed to go with Jo to the Cotswolds. She would handle the young officer asking the question of whether she wanted to come back, she decided, because she didn't want to be alone for another night. Packing the few belongings she had with her away into a duffel bag, then, she waited dejectedly on the front step of the safehouse until Jo drove by to collect her, after work.

.

They barely spoke on the journey up. Jo stuck in an audio book of some description and they sat in almost comfortable silence as first London then rolling countryside flooded past them. Field after field. Line after white line, on the road. Overhead, the sky alternated between purple cloud and pitch black night. Ruth leant against the window and watched it all fly by, trying so hard to be dispassionate and brave. She failed, however. Her body was too full of emotion and her mind too full of memories to let her ice over. She remembered George and Nico, laughing at the poolside of their villa. She remembered Harry's face – the delight to see her again so closely followed by terror that she had been captured. She imagined the confusion and terror George must have felt as the gunman had lifted the pistol to his head. She remembered how Harry's lips had felt against hers, that day on the wharf.

A tear broke the barrier of her lids at one hour into the drive. By the time the second had rolled by, she had cried herself to sleep and had to be woken, when they arrived, by Jo. Stumbling inside the cottage and into bed, Ruth slept fitfully until noon the next day.

.

When she woke the next morning, Ruth found that Jo had disappeared off on a run and she had been left to explore the cottage and surrounding village – a little place not too far from Cheltenham which she had passed through several times, during her time living in the area. Ruth dressed and wandered into the town, inspected a few of the shops, ate some lunch, then returned to browse through the spare rooms of the cottage before eventually settling in the back room, by the gas fire, with a book and a glass of the red wine Jo had left on the counter. She was a few chapters in when Jo came bursting through the door, smelling of the wet outside and full of enthusiasm.

"Hello!" the young officer greeted her as she traipsed over, muddy up to her knees and flicked with leaves and bits of twig.

Ruth knew that everyone had their coping mechanisms for their job but, for the life of her, she couldn't understand how throwing yourself through the woodland for hours at a time was meant to help.

"How was it?" she asked the younger woman, anyway, eyeing up her muddied attire and wondering if whomever was lending her the cottage minded her besmirching their upholstery.

Jo nodded. "Good. Beat my split but cramped up on the last five K and had to slow down."

Ruth, who knew perilously little about cross country running – or, in fact, any running at all – just nodded.

"Sounds like a success."

"How was your afternoon?" asked Jo, moving to stand closer to her chair. Her cheeks were still flushed with the cold air and her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Young, thought Ruth, so full of life and hope. "I looked in on you earlier, around eleven," the young woman commented, "but you looked so peaceful I didn't have the heart to wake you."

Ruth, who didn't have the heart to tell the chipper young spy that her sleep had been fitful at best and punctuated with alternate visions of Harry and George being shot, just nodded and said that she had slept very well. "It's a relief to be out of that safehouse," she added, honestly.

Excusing herself, Jo went for a shower and returned, sometime later, with a glass of wine in her hand and settled herself next to Ruth on the overstuffed couch.

They sipped and read and went idly about their own business, for a while, then Jo moved on to chatting about unobtrusive topics – such as an old TV series they had used to both watch, which had not changed during her time away, and the food at Thames House, which had (a turn for the worse, Ruth was sorry to hear). Slowly, as conversation began to flow more easily, Ruth began to relax. The sick expectation of Jo's question had begun to wane away, from her chest. She had missed this, the ex-analyst realised, watching Jo expressively telling her about her trip to Ireland, last year. She had missed having friends who shared the same secrets as herself, who had shared the same lifestyle. She had missed Jo, in particular.

As the young woman laughingly recounted an operation which had involved young Zafar Younis going undercover in a dress, Ruth suddenly realised exactly how long she had been out of their world. Normal years were not the same as spy years. The world moved faster, inside Thames House. People did not last as long. When she had left, Jo had been the new member of the team. She had been young and innocent and naive. Now, behind the laughter and jollity, Ruth could see the eyes of a slightly sombre girl. She had lost a mentor in Adam and a friend in Zaf (if not, as Ruth suspected, more than a friend). She had lost this man Ben, too, who Ruth had never even met. She had risked her life and made impossible decisions. She had faced rape and torture and been incredibly brave. In the time she had been away, Jo had become a crippled hero, like the rest of them, full of self-control and self-denial and pledged to sacrifice.

"What do you want to do about tea?" the younger woman asked, with a sigh and a stretch, as their conversation trickled out into nothingness.

Ruth took a last sip from her glass, setting it down on the coffee table and curling a little deeper into the blankets on the couch.

"I'm actually okay for now," she admitted, shifting around until she was absolutely comfortable. Physical comfort went a long way to soothing her mental thrashing. "Unless you're hungry?"

"No, I'm fine."

"We can go do lunch at the pub tomorrow, if you like?"

"Sounds like a plan."

They smiled and sat for a little longer and then there was a slight shift in the air, a nervousness that came as accompaniment to the subject Ruth had been dreading.

"So," Jo began, a little timidly, "what will you do with yourself, once you have citizenship back?"

Ruth faltered in her smile and facade of composure. What would she do with herself? From where she was sitting, she could only see two real, workable options. She could go back to MI5 or spend the rest of her life pretending to be something she wasn't – something good and whole. Ruth knew she could not risk the lives of innocents again. She could not take a partner or make a family. And that was what was swaying her towards the first of her two choices. Even as broken and hurt as she felt, right now, she wasn't sure that she could survive a life of enforced solitude. At least, with the Service, she would not be physically alone. There would be Jo and Malcolm and other spooks around, who understood that aspect of her life. And Thames House had been the only place where she had truly felt as if she was useful – felt as if she belonged. And Harry was there, she added quietly herself, Harry who she missed so desperately. Harry, who she hated. Harry, who she loved.

God, she just didn't know.

"I'm not sure yet," she told Jo, honestly, looking down at her hands as they fidgeted in her lap. "To be honest, I don't even know what options will be open to me, once I have a new identity."

"Harry's talking to the Home Secretary about that," Jo piped up, looking pleased. "Apparently, Blake owes him a favour and he's going to get your name back – your old identity."

Her old identity. How very spook-like, thought Ruth, with a tight smile. It would be like returning to an old identity too – like pulling on the mask of the woman she used to be. She could never be naive Ruth Evershed again, never be so full of hope, or faith that there was balance to the terrible world they lived in. She could never love unrepentantly and carelessly, like she had used to. Love was dangerous. Even caring for someone was dangerous. She might as well shut herself off from the rest of the world, run away and not return. But...

But that would mean never seeing Harry again and she thought, by the clenching of her heart each time Jo said his name, that she might rather shoulder the shame and confliction of returning to him, than face the utter desolation of never seeing him again. As awful as their next few meetings would be, as angry at him as she still was, Ruth did not think she could walk away completely.

"How is Harry?" she asked Jo, still looking down, not able to meet the younger woman's eyes because she could not bear to let her see the grudging love shining there. How could Jo understand, after all, that she still cared? How could she not blame Ruth, for loving the man who had sent her husband and very nearly her stepson to their graves?

Jo gave a hesitant pause, then answered, diplomatically.

"As well as can be expected."

Ruth gave a sharp exhale, which Jo correctly read as disbelief.

"Okay," the young officer corrected, "he's been a little better, since you two spoke, but I can tell he's still distressed and worried about you. He's not said anything, but even bloody Ros Myers has picked up on it."

Ruth felt a pang of guilt and glanced up, to meet her gaze.

To her surprise, Jo did not flinch with incomprehension, at the love in her eyes. Rather, she just gave a slightly sad smile.

"He's not well, really," she summed up, with a little dip of her head.

Because of me, thought the ex-analyst, wincing.

She tried to feel pleased by it, tried to be glad that he was suffering for what they had done and its consequences, but the feeling would not hold. Harry hurt was not something Ruth had ever wanted to see – even in the most grief-stricken moments after George had been taken from her. She was still perilously angry with him and she wanted him to know that. She wanted him to feel pretty damned apologetic about what had happened, but she did not want him to hurt.

"He called me again yesterday, to check in," she admitted, to Jo. "What I said wasn't very fair."

Jo sighed heavily.

"Ruth, he's not expecting you to be fair," she shook her head. "None of us are."

"Well, what he's expecting, I don't think I can give."

A long silence followed and Ruth realised that, perhaps, she had spoken too far. Harry was Jo's boss, after all was said and done, and what she had said brought the whole conversation onto a much more personal level. It was not explicit and Ruth had not really meant by it what it sounded like, but it was probably too much for Jo – who was a proper spy, now. She was probably very good at compartmentalising her life – separating the personal and the professional – thought Ruth. Self-control, self-denial; Harry's rules for Harry's game. And what a game, thought Ruth, closing her eyes momentarily. They all got dragged in. And down. And on. And on.

"Sorry," she muttered, turning half away from Jo again. "I shouldn't have said that."

"You should." Jo leant forwards, a little closer to Ruth. "You need to talk, you need an outlet. All of us do. I have my crazy running," she explained, with a half-hearted attempt at a smile.

"Still, I shouldn't put this on you. It's not fair," Ruth insisted.

"Why? Because I'm too young?" Jo pushed. "Because he's your boss and all you have been through? Or because you still have feelings for each other, despite it all?"

Ruth stared, her heart suddenly beating a lot faster, her belly writhing with discomfort. The British woman in her had half a mind to rise from her seat and walk out, for the impertinence of such a question (who on earth said such a thing, after all, to someone in her situation. It just wasn't done) but the strength of her friendship with Jo rooted her to her seat. Indignant anger peaked and subsided and finally, as the silence stretched to nearly a minute and her young friend neither retracted nor apologised for her statement, Ruth felt obliged to say something.

"You have no idea..." she began, then lost confidence in that angle of her argument. "You could not possibly understand what this feels like," she started again. "Harry and I were always so complicated and now, well, anything that was there..." she looked down, then up again. "Everything is different now and, whatever we were to one another, we can't be, any more. Things can't be the same. He _has_ to know that!"

"You can't expect him to know that, if you won't talk to him," Jo told her, a little more firmly this time.

Ruth watched, marvelling at just how much the young woman had changed, in her absence. While she had been gone, Jo had grown from the nervous new officer – a young, bright, naive woman – into a steady, confident woman. She had lived and lost and had grown closer to Harry, too. They had saved each other, protected each other and fought beside one another for two and a half years. Jo cared what happened between herself and Harry, now, not only because she was Ruth's friend but because she cared about her boss. Unfortunately, Ruth had no words that would assure either of them.

"I don't think I can face talking to him, right now, Jo," she said softly. She was so broken and torn apart by love and anger. "I said I was sorry and that I accepted his apology and I think, for now, we should just leave it at that. Everything is too... raw to stir up any more. And every time we talk, it seems to make things worse," she added, looking hurriedly away and back down to her hands, folded in her lap.

There was a long, painful silence.

Jo nodded slowly. Then she began to speak, her abrupt change in conversation throwing Ruth, for a moment.

"Malcolm's taken retirement."

"What?" Ruth frowned, looking back up. "When?"

"The evening after we got you and Harry back, from Mani, but I only found out yesterday."

"Harry didn't say," Ruth eventually managed to stammer out. "I take it wasn't on medical grounds, or..."

"No, nothing sinister," Jo assured her. "He's just had enough, I think."

"Well good for him," Ruth nodded to herself. "I always thought he was the smartest of us." Escaping while he still had some semblance of dignity and a life left, before the service could swallow him up completely. "I hope he manages to find some peace."

"Harry and me will be the only ones left, from the old team," Jo continued and Ruth realised, with a sinking feeling, that the topic of conversation had not changed at all and that this was actually just a cunning segue back into the matter of Harry's welfare.

"I still think of you as a new officer," she told Jo, hoping to prolong the talk about old times and prevent moving on to more on their current situation. "I suppose you're an old hand, now."

Jo held her silence for a moment, then pressed on. "We need to stick together, Ruth," she told her, firmly. "Harry wants you back on the team. He will move heaven and Earth in order to make it possible."

"And I'm just supposed to be grateful?" Ruth asked, indignant anger piqued again – if only briefly.

Jo sighed.

"No, just..." she swallowed and shifted, moving one hand as if to try and coax the correct words from her lips. "Just try and consider it, that's all. I know he's not the most loquacious at apologies," she told Ruth gently, "or, in fact, much else," she added, with a small frown, "but he is trying to make amends, Ruth. Even from the outside, I can see that. He wants to make things easier for you."

Ruth did not answer right away and the quiet of the room threatened to become oppressive, for a while.

The gas fireplace crackled, its false flames licking up around the false logs, their light reflecting in the black glass of the window panes. Lifting her eyes, Ruth gazing out into the night time gardens beyond. It was a nice little cottage, really. She had explored it thoroughly in her time alone this morning. Not too small, not too large, with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a small living room, downstairs. It was the sort of place Ruth had always imagined herself living in years ago, when she had fantasised of settling down and making a family.

When she left GCHQ, she had joked with her mother that she would find a nice analyst and settle down – someone who understood the demands of what she did and could suffer the real spies alongside her. She had laughed at the prospect of falling for one of those ridiculous James Bond types and here she was, five years later, in love with a spy. And not just in love, either, but destroyed by him. Her mother had died a year ago, thinking she was dead. Harry had probably been the one to bring her the news.

Ruth smiled wryly to herself, at that.

What a tragic love story theirs really was.

"He wants me to ask you if you'll meet him, to discuss the possibly of coming back," Jo said, sounding slightly nervous, as if she had not completely ruled out Ruth flying off the handle as she spoke her piece. "What should I tell him?"

Ruth swallowed.

Her coming back to MI5. Her being a proper spook, once more.

Did she want to? Yes.

Did she think she should? No.

It was all way too bloody confusing. She wanted to return to work that had meaning, to give her something to fill her days and make them worthwhile. At the same time, she was not sure she could endure a job where she had to spend so much time in Harry's immediate vicinity. Her offer of forgiveness to him, the other day, had been genuine but it was entirely possible to forgive someone while still holding anger towards them and that was how Ruth felt for Harry. She knew what he had done was necessary, but part of her still hated him a little. She didn't even know if they could work together.

But she did want to come back. And to see him. She needed to know that he was really okay, after everything that had happened. Safe, unharmed, and apologetic for what he had done to her. But not hurt, she reminded herself, before her anger grew too much. Only apologetic. Never hurt.

God, thought Ruth, with a heavy sigh. And she had thought dealing with their infatuation had been difficult – it didn't even hold a light to this confusion. This was deep in her heart, in her gut, in her mind. Every part of her seemed to be giving different advice and she couldn't follow all of it. So what would it be?

Heart? Gut? Mind?

Harry, Thames House and Jo? Or just her, alone in the world, once more?

Ruth gave a sigh.

"I'll meet him, Jo," she told her old friend softly. All of the animosity for the younger officer's earlier impertinence had fled from her body. Jo had been right to call her on how she was treating Harry. Whatever their issues and anger, they needed to sort things out. It had been almost a week since she was back and both of them needed to know where they stood if there was even a chance of them salvaging lives from these ashes. For just now, however, all Ruth wanted was to curl up in bed and sleep. "You're right, we need to talk." And for real, this time, not just an apology and a running away.

Jo nodded, clearly knowing that this vague answer was all she could hope for, for the time being. A promise of consideration. A very tentative maybe.

After a few moments had passed in more comfortable silence, the young officer added, "Ruth, I know I don't have the right to judge you on any of these things, like you said, but..." she cleared her throat, "but please do know that I have an idea of what you're going through. It wasn't the same, I suppose – I mean, it never is the same, for two people – but I know how complicated loss can be, in our world. I have seen my colleagues and my friends, men and woman who I have cared about and loved, taken away from me under terrible circumstances. It's not the same as what you're going through, but I do understand, just a little."

Ruth looked into the younger woman's big blue eyes, picking out the darker flecks around the edges of her irises.

Jo was a beautiful young woman. It was such a terrible shame that she should be wasted on this life. She could have been a journalist. She could have travelled the world and revelled in truth rather than secrets. She could have written beautiful pieces, served justice in her own way, brought joy rather than death and fear. She could have met a beautiful young man and made a beautiful young family. She could have been Joanna Portman and had that name mean something, as opposed to being an anonymous entry into a government database. Jo deserved more than this fate. Deserved more than a life spent missing those she had lost. Zaf. Adam. Ben. All gone.

"I know, Jo," she murmured, softly. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise."

"You don't have to be sorry," Jo told her, shaking her head. Her eyes were unbelievably strong. "And I know our world is a harsh one but what we do – what we are – it matters." Her words would have felt too much if they had not been said so sincerely. "Saving just a single life makes it worth it and we get to save hundreds. We suffer loss, but we are the lucky ones, really." She smiled, a sad little smile. "People go their whole lives without something like we have, to believe in."

As she said it, Ruth had a brief and horrible feeling that one day she would have to see this brave young woman die, for the belief she held so dear. Shaking it aside, she forced herself to reply.

"I will consider coming back, Jo," she told her ex-colleague. "I promise. I'll meet Harry and we'll talk about it." She wasn't sure how much talking she would get through, mind, before she burst into incoherent tears (or kissed, or slapped him – or all three). "We'll figure something out."

"Thank you," Jo told her, softly.

Ruth nodded.

They shifted and their feet met across the couch, Ruth's sock touched lightly against Jo's bare toes.

Contact. The first contact she'd had, since the day of George's death.

Ruth felt a rush of gratitude towards the woman across from her – sweet Jo, who just wanted to heal everyone – and, as she felt the gratitude, she felt relief, too. In the days after this had happened, she had been so afraid that she would never feel anything but anger and shame, ever again. But she had been wrong. She could feel gratitude and warmth for another human being. She was not broken forever, then. She still had Jo, whatever else the world threw at her. She still had a friend, in the storm.

And her friend was right. She, Harry and Jo were the only ones left at Thames House, now, from before. They should stick together. She would go back then, she thought. She would arrange a meeting with Harry, to hear his offer of employment, though she would hold out on telling him her decision on the matter for a few days longer – just to come to terms with the idea herself, first; just to make sure it really was what she wanted and that it really could work. She would not hold back long enough to be cruel, however. Harry would agonise over it all, until he knew, and Ruth couldn't stomach the idea of him in unnecessary turmoil. They had meant too much to each other for her to want that. No, she decided, she would meet him, take a day or so, and then she would tell him her decision. She would go back because that was the world she was a part of. And Jo was there. Jo, who she could lean on if things went pear-shaped again.

She gave the young officer a tentative smile.

Jo gave one too.

Yes, Ruth thought, she would go back.

.


	6. Chapter 6

_Set season 8 just after episode 4_

_._

_Chapter 6 _

.

It was a testament to how completely work had consumed Ruth's life, before she left, that returning to the Grid was like returning home. Every tiny detail of the place made her feel somehow more at peace with herself. Here, unlike inside of her and in the outside world, nothing had changed. The walls were still that slightly outdated colour. The pods were still slightly too slow and a little chunky. The desks were arranged differently, to accommodate new hardware, but the overall result was not so very different. Even the coffee was just as vile and tasteless as ever.

The coffee was not all that had remained the same, however. It seemed that no sooner had she she slotted back into place, at a new desk with a new computer, than the death had reared its ugly head to greet her. Just hours after her return, Joanna Portman was caught in the crossfire of the Bendorf group kidnapping. Sweet, brave Jo, far too young to die – taken a bullet to the chest to stop the deaths of sixteen other people.

For the first few hours afterwards, it did not seem real, just like another of her dreams where those Ruth had left were taken from her. Only, this time, it wasn't Harry who she was mourning. She cried, instead, over the death of a twenty-seven year old; a sweet beautiful girl whose friendship she had thought would be the one thing which would support her through her return. It had been a stupid expectation, Ruth told herself, in the days afterwards. Of course people died, in their line of work. It was stupid of her to have counted on Jo to be there. Still, she couldn't believe that it had happened so soon. She had thought there would be more time before the sadness kicked in again. She was a little confused. She had thought that was how it worked; time to recover before she was ripped to pieces. That was how it had always happened before.

To make things more confusing, the things which Ruth had thought would be difficult, about returning, were actually the easiest to deal with. Nobody asked her personal questions, about her time away, or about why she was used as leverage against Harry. And Harry, himself, was nowhere near as awkward as she had expected. He had not changed, all that much, while she had been away. Despite the catalogue of disasters that had occurred, his eyes were only a little sadder than they had been before. He looked older, Ruth thought, but not so very much. Seeing him in action, it was hard to think that a few years had passed. His little frowns and expressions were exactly the same as they had been before. He was still a grumpy sod in the mornings, after JIC meetings and whenever someone disagreed with him. He was still a good man, underneath the pompous exterior.

Though their encounters remained fraught with subtext, superficial interactions were surprisingly easy to handle. Almost immediately, they fell back into their old ways. Harry keeping a respectful distance from her at all times, letting just a hint of warmth through, when he thought she could handle it. Ruth throwing a friendly comment into conversation, every now and then – trying not to let their combined wariness of each other grow too heavy. Work kept them too occupied to dwell on it, most days, anyway. Work was oddly therapeutic.

The new team was every bit as efficient as the old one and Ruth got on with all of them fairly well. She could not quite bring herself to like Ros Myers – the old hand, now, and Section Chief to boot – despite how close she and Harry seemed to have become. Ros had been instrumental in Ruth's exile. She had delivered her to Harry's enemies, labelled as leverage. She had also been the one to shoot Jo through the heart. And, while Ruth understood why the second been necessary and the first had been atoned for through years of service, she just knew she would never be a fan. She was almost positive the feeling was mutual, too. Either that or Ros simply did not know what to say. The two rarely talked, for that reason, apart from what was essential to get the job done. Having had such close relationships with her colleagues, in the past, it felt odd to Ruth.

As for the others, Tariq was sweet but so very, very young and Lucas was so full of his own turmoil that Ruth felt she could absorb it by osmosis. She resolved to keep her distance, then, from both of them. It was easier this way, she decided. After all, she had let Jo in and look how much that had hurt her. She had let Harry in and it had destroyed her.

She kept her distance from all of them, then, and absorbed her in the work – glad that that had not changed, during her absence, glad that it was every bit as intense and insane as ever. Like she had done before, she arrived early in the mornings, worked late into the evenings and muddled through, making a decent enough dent in her in-tray to feel satisfied at the end of the day. People still surprised her, with their inhumanity. The darkness still gnawed at her, though she had a colder heart and thicker skin, than she had before.

Time ticked over until a week had passed, since her return, then two. One evening, sitting at her computer, she realised she had been back for a whole month.

She was fighting with a program which they had not used, in her previous service. It was almost exactly the same as its predecessor – a search algorithm, which would cross check several databases and throw up results – but Ruth had not quite figured out the ins and outs of it, yet. Currently, she was struggling with how to add a keyword into her search parameters, without having to open a new search. It was frustrating, because she knew what she wanted to do and how to do it in their old program, but was not entirely sure how to go about it in this one. She was toying with the settings with a frown on her face when soft footfalls on the floor announced Harry's arrival, at her shoulder.

She turned, glad to have something else to occupy her mind for a few moments – even if it was Harry, who she was not entirely sure how to deal with, at the moment – just so that she could have a break from the endless pages of information.

"Evening'," Harry greeted her, a little colloquially.

Ruth eyed him. He had been at a meeting with an asset, in North London, and was still dressed warmly from the cold outside. Thick woollen coat. Gloves sticking out of his pocket. His cheeks were flushed slightly, pink across the rise of his cheeks and at the very tips of his ears. He was looking slightly pleased with himself, too, no doubt due to the file gripped in his hand. A successful trip, no doubt.

"Back early?" she asked, raising her eyes to his again.

"Yes. My asset turned up on time, for the first time in history." Harry half raised the file. "Whether or not his intelligence is of any use, however, we shall have to wait and see."

"How can I help?" Ruth asked, leaning back in her chair.

"Just a few things to look through..." he paused, looking at the screen behind her. "I actually came over to check in. You looked..." he deliberated for a second, then settled on a very diplomatic "...vexed. I wondered if I might help."

The hopeful expression in his eyes was too much to resist and Ruth found her usual coolness melting, just a little. For a moment, all of their complicated history fell away and it was like it used to be again; just two friends, standing opposite one another – two people who had not died or killed for one another, who did not live in a shadow world, where everyone around them was stitched together from secrets and deceit. The look in Harry's eyes was warm and it made Ruth feel warm too. Just for a moment

"I can't figure out how to alter the search algorithm," she admitted, swivelling around in her chair to face him more openly.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You have new software," Ruth explained. "I have figured out most of it, but there are a few protocols that make the new email system appear almost user-friendly."

His expression changed into one of realisation, making her smile just a little again.

He forgot she had been away, sometimes, Ruth could tell. She supposed it was easy to do. Harry knew nothing of the life she had lived, so it was not a constant reminder to him. While she had been parted from him his routine had stayed the same. It must make things more difficult for him, she thought, watching as he moved forwards and laid the file he was carrying on her desk, reaching down to grab her computer mouse and click open one of the boxes at the top of her screen. He forgot, that she had changed during years that he had remained the same, and sometimes still talked to her as if he would have talked to the old Ruth. He forgot, sometimes, the circumstances of her return. It made their interactions that little bit more awkward when he remembered.

"Here," he murmured, pulling up a new box and linking it to the previous search as a secondary function. "That should work."

"What was I doing wrong?" Ruth asked, sighing at the machine.

"You can't backtrack and add a new keyword to the original search without re-running everything," Harry explained, with a little shrug that told her it was a common mistake, with new staff. "This allows you to filter down what you already have, by your new parameters, but you won't get any extra results using just that keyword – probably not a problem, in this case. Oh," he paused before leaning back, "and you have to add it as a text file or you'll be here for months." He pulled a tight smile. "...wisdom of Miss Myers."

Ruth watched her boss as he leant back against the desk beside her. They had been maintaining a very strict three foot perimeter around each other, ever since she had returned but his movements, towards the computer, had brought him a little closer to her than they normally would allow. This was not three feet, she thought, noticing how Harry's breathing had quickened, slightly, and how his shoulders seemed suddenly tenser. Beneath the outer layer of calm, he had realised it, too, and was equally as unsettled.

It felt strange, to be able to pick him apart more easily than she had done, in the past. During her time away, Ruth knew had become much more observant (ironic, really, that it had taken leaving MI5 to make her into a proper spy) but this was Harry and Harry had always been a complete mystery to her. Now, however, all she could see were the things she knew about him rather than all the things she didn't.

The tautening of his forehead told her that he was not sure to stay or walk away. The thinness of his upper lip meant that his smile was a nervous one and he was inwardly torn between acting like her boss and reaching out to her as a person – as the person he had lost and had spent the best part of the last two years idolising.

How could she ever live up to the woman he had formed, in his mind, she wondered, watching him steadily. How could she measure up to this ideal of the Ruth Evershed Harry thought she was. Now, it was all she could do to impersonate a normal human being. How was someone as destroyed and broken as she was ever live up to his ideals?

"Thank you," she told him, quietly, turning her mind back to the moment and to her problem with the computer program. "I thought I was going to have to start the search all over again. My sanity may not have taken it."

Harry gave a tight smile, leaning a little further back against her desk – whether in attempt to look nonchalant or to put distance between them, Ruth could not tell.

"I remember a time you were the one helping _me_ with the system," he commented, brightly.

"How things change..."

"Not so much," he told her, confidentially. "That was something of a fluke. I only know how to do two things on that program and that," he nodded towards the computer, "was one of them."

"I suppose you don't spend a lot of time using it," Ruth pointed out, diplomatically.

"No, I have people to suffer that for me."

"Perks of being boss."

"Indeed." He gave a little frown, then added, "It's probably a good thing. I have been repeatedly told that I am not technology-friendly."

Ruth gave a tiny involuntary laugh, as warm affection ran through her.

No, he had never been particularly technology-friendly. It was a matter which had infuriated his superiors and his inferiors in equal measure. It was probably why, though all the other offices in MI5 headquarters were now paperless, Harry still required Section D to have everything in hard copy. He was frequently referred to as a dinosaur and Ruth supposed there was an element of truth to the title but, personally, she thought 'old-fashioned' was more suitable. Harry was cautious, about new technologies and change, but he had never shied away from those which would make his officers lives that bit easier. A hatred of change was not so terrible when tempered with a dose of pragmatism.

Their eyes held warmly for a moment before Ruth suddenly realised what was happening. This was wrong, she thought, scolding herself internally. This was completely wrong. This was light, friendly conversation and she shouldn't be sitting, chatting to Harry about old times. She didn't deserve to laugh and joke with him, to be happy, after what had happened to George because of their silly love affair. Neither she nor Harry deserved to be happy. Tearing her eyes away from him, she looked at the file he had laid down.

"Everything else okay?" Harry asked gently, after a moment had passed in silence. "I know a lot of this has changed over the past few years. If you're having any trouble, I'm happy to help."

He was persevering, Ruth thought, a little guiltily. Despite her sudden and obvious change in mood, he was persevering. He just wanted to talk to her. Just wanted a hint of the relationship they had used to have.

Swallowing back her sudden discomfort and nerves, she nodded.

"I'm fine," she cleared her throat. "Tariq explained everything very efficiently. He probably told me how to do this too and I've just forgotten."

"No problems with the new inter-agency request system?"

"It's fine."

"It drove me mad for the first few weeks."

"I can see how."

There was another long silence, then Harry started again, voice purposefully light.

"I'm sorry about the workload. It'll be better next week, when we get that new junior analyst over, from C."

Ruth's heart softened a little. God, he really was trying. As Jo had once told her, he had never been particularly loquacious. This was the Harry equivalent of throwing himself down on his knees in front of her and begging her to talk to him. She shouldn't be so horridly dismissive.

"It's okay," she forced a little smile, lifting her eyes back up to his. "I'm doing fine. Honestly, Harry, I think I'm just overtired."

Harry looked at his watch.

"Well, it is half past seven. You should really be home."

"As should you," she pointed out, the comment so reminiscent of the conversations they had used to have that she looked hurriedly away again.

This was how it had always gone; Harry had told her to go home, Ruth had playfully retorted that she would go home when he would, and it had been left unsaid in the air that they both sort of wanted to go home together. But they could not say those things now, she reminded herself. They were not allowed to feel that way, now.

After a few seconds of silence, Ruth noticed Harry looking around, clearly ascertaining that they were alone on the Grid, and felt a thrill of panic run through her. She knew what was about to happen and she wasn't sure she was ready for it. He was going to try and have a personal conversation, she thought, moving her seat backwards an inch and shifting her weight forwards onto her feet. She was definitely not ready for this. And certainly not ready for it here.

Intending to make up some excuse to leave, she made to stand up, but Harry started speaking before she could get there.

"Ruth...?" he started, speaking her name like a question.

"I was just going to go and make coffee," she blurted, hoping against hope that he would take the hint and stop talking.

Harry, however, did not take the hint.

"Can I not keep you another two minutes?"

"I should really get back to work-,"

"As your boss, I give you permission to stand down. You are technically off the clock," he pointed out.

"Well, if I'm off the clock," she blustered, "maybe it's best if I just go home."

She stood up and made to move away but Harry reached out, stilling her.

"Ruth, wait – please!"

She faltered. She had never quite been able to refuse a direct request from him and his hand, on her arm, was the first time they had touched since her return. She felt frozen to the spot by it.

The moment stretched on into two seconds, then ten, then half a minute.

"Don't go," Harry asked, voice very quiet, despite them being alone on the Grid, and oddly desperate. "Talk to me."

"Harry..."

Her breaths were short and fast, her heart rate thumping. Half of her wanted to face him and shout her heart out – about all the unresolved tension that still hung in the air, between them. Half of her wanted to run.

"Please, Ruth. We need to talk through this, or we'll be stuck here forever."

"I can't," she whispered, the latter half starting to take control. "I have to go."

"Please..." he leant in slightly, eyes begging her to stay.

Ruth watched him back, conflicted and silent.

Her standing up had brought them closer together and, with Harry just a foot away, she could see every line on his face, every fair eyelash around his eyes and every mark on him, like she had not been able to since their goodbye on the wharf that cold spring morning. He had not changed, not so very much. He still had a thin scar, over the left side of his forehead, narrow and white. He still had a slightly pink mark, on the side of his neck, below his ear, which might once have been a burn. He was still laced with the marks of this place. He epitomised this place, she thought, chancing the quickest of looks directly into his eyes. Harry Pearce _was_ MI5 and she could not let him close to her again. She could not let herself be sucked in and destroyed.

More than that, she could not fight with him because there was the small chance that their argument might _actually_ solve something. And, if it did, all of her anger would leave her and she would forgive him completely. And he didn't deserve forgiveness. Neither of them did. They did not deserve to fall into one another and find solace. They had done too many terrible things to be allowed that.

"Ruth..." Harry pleaded, one final time.

She tugged her arm slightly and he relented, fingers releasing but remaining against her until she pulled away.

"I can't," she reiterated, swallowing back the tightness in her throat. "I'm sorry Harry..."

And she was. She hated to see him hurting. But she couldn't do this.

"I'll be back to turn that off in a minute," she gestured at the computer, with the silent intimation that he should be gone when she returned. "I'm sorry," she whispered again.

Then, she turned on her heel and walked off towards the bathroom.

Harry stood in her wake and let her go.

.

Standing by the sink she stared into the mirror, trembling hands gripping the cold porcelain, heart thundering within her chest. She couldn't do this, she thought, closing her eyes against the stark light of the bathroom. She couldn't bloody do this. She couldn't be around Harry. It was like they were drawn to one another, like magnetism. She could not avoid these little moments they created with each other but, after they happened, she felt so terribly, awfully guilty. What would George think? What would the man who had accepted her so kindly into his life, when she had been stranger in a strange land, think of her laughing with the man who had allowed him to die?

It was such a betrayal. She was so angry with herself.

Angry, but incapable of changing.

She had chosen to come back here. She had chosen to be around Harry every day. Most days she thought she knew why she had made that choice – because they saved lives and stopped bad people from killing innocent people – but there were some days...

Some days, the last few years faded away and she and Harry were like she and Harry used to be. He would make some little comment, or joke, and she would forget that she was not supposed to love him and she would laugh. And, on those days, she was fairly sure she had come back not because it was right or because she had no other option but because she was selfish and she wanted – deep down – to be near him again because it made her feel good. And she felt ashamed for that.

.

After standing for five minutes or so, her body had calmed and her mind was ready to tidy up her station for the night. Gathering herself, Ruth washed her hands for posterity, letting the cool water run over her wrists until she felt all traces of panic leave her, then she turned and left the bathroom. Coming down the corridor, she walked back out onto the Grid and almost stopped in her tracks when she found Harry still standing at her station, waiting for her.

Anger pricked within her. She had given him the opportunity to walk away. She had tried to avoid confrontation. What was he playing at? Couldn't he leave her be?

Striding over, she started to gather her things off the desk, all without looking at him.

"Ruth?" he questioned, softly, after a few seconds of her ignoring.

"Harry, I'm going home," she told him, quite firmly.

"I know. I'm not trying to talk." He sounded so resigned that she turned and lifted her eyes to his.

"What do you need then?" she asked, just a little testily.

"Two things. Firstly, I need a synopsis of what happened with Darshavin for the DG. Secondly, I need you to look at this file. Some information from an asset that might have to do with 'Nightingale'." He shifted, lifting the file off his desk and offering it over to her. "I have a meeting tomorrow morning, with Walker, so I won't need it until the afternoon..." He trailed off, looking to the ground. "If you could have it for me as soon as possible that would be good."

Ruth watched him.

"I'll have it done," she said, eventually, when the staring had become too intense. "First thing tomorrow."

Harry nodded but continued to watch her back. Eyes like honey.

Ruth's jaw tightened, trying to resist the pull of guilt that ran through her belly. It wasn't fair. Fair enough that she felt guilt for caring for him – she had expected that, after all, when she came back – but she shouldn't have to feel guilt for pushing him away as well. And why he wasn't speaking, she asked herself, frustration reaching a fever pitch inside of her. Why wouldn't he say something to break the tension? Did he enjoy making these moments as difficult as possible for her?

"Listen," she blurted, eventually, when his slightly reproachful (slightly longing) gaze became too much. "I know we have to work together and I'm trying to be reasonable, I really am."

Harry nodded.

"This isn't easy," Ruth stressed.

Harry nodded again. Still wordless.

"For God's sake, Harry," she hissed, turning to her chair and dragging the coat off the back of it, slinging it over her shoulders and trying to shove her hands down the sleeves – failing because her anger was causing her hands to shake. "I have no idea what to say to you."

"No," Harry finally spoke, shaking his head, "you have no idea what _I_ _want_ you to say to me."

"What is the difference?" she snapped, finally getting the coat on and turning to face him.

Harry gave a wry exhale of laughter.

"The difference..." he ran one hand wearily through his thinning hair. "Ruth, there is no right thing to say, here. There is no magic phrase which is going to make this okay again. And I know it's not easy," he told her, lowering his hand to the desk again and inclining his head ever so slightly towards her. "But we do need to talk."

"Whenever we talk, things go wrong," Ruth retorted. "I think, maybe, we should just stick to work. We're good at work."

"Yes," Harry sighed, his eyes flickered over her face, looking suddenly and utterly exhausted by their conversation. "Yes, we are..."

Ruth got the impression that he would much rather they were better at other aspects.

"I'll have this done by tomorrow," she muttered, picking up the file and placing it in her in-tray.

Harry shuffled his feet and watched her.

"Thank you."

They stood watching each other for a while.

"Goodnight, Ruth," he told her, quietly.

"Goodnight." She wanted to say his name, but it felt too intimate and she was still too angry. Instead, she watched him for a moment longer, before grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow," she muttered in concession, as she turned and left the Grid.

As she reached the glass security doors, she chanced a glance back, noting that Harry was still standing by her desk, and her heart felt like it was ripping right open again – all of the feelings she had had compartmentalised, over the last few weeks, pouring back out into her body. Somehow, she made it all the way downstairs and out into the night before they poured out, across her face. Stepping out into the rain, she chose to leave her umbrella in her bag, glad of the water falling from above, which hid the tears sliding down her cheeks.

Her head hurt with seething thoughts. Her heart just hurt.

None of this was fair.

.


	7. Chapter 7

_Set season 8 between episodes 5 and 6 _

_._

_Chapter 7 _

.

Ruth didn't know she had it in her, to hold onto anger for so long, but it seemed she did. For a whole month, nothing changed between her and Harry. Their working relationship remained stilted and awkward and their personal relationship, nonexistent. Torn in two by confusion and guilt, she kept their interactions to a minimum as they soldiered on, beginning to pick apart the sinister 'nightingale' conspiracy. She did her best to ignore her boss's attempts at reconciliation as they chased details of Sam Walker's death and the days grew longer, leading into autumn again. She tried to remain impartial as Tariq found his feet and to look at home on the Grid and as Lucas drifted a little further away from all of them, in the wake of what they discovered about Sarah Caulfield. She held on as the team nearly lost Ros to the burnt out Jack Colville. She held her anger close because, at the time, it seemed like the only sensible thing to do. It seemed like the only thing she could hold onto, with any certainty. And then, one day, it suddenly felt superfluous.

It was quarter to twelve and Ruth was still sitting at her desk, staring down an endless list of possible links to Basel, trying in vain to make some connection through their databases. She had known she would fail when she assigned herself the task, earlier that evening, but she persisted anyway. It was something to fill the time and, honestly, she just did not want to go home. Her mind was still thrilling with the events of the day – of Ros's near death escape and what she had said to her afterwards.

They had been standing over near the door to the briefing room and, in an uncharacteristically close moment – something that the two women very rarely shared, never having seen eye to eye on a matter of subjects. Ruth had asked Ros if she was okay, really okay, after what had happened. Ros had nodded and muttered something dark and stereotypically Ros. They had stood for a moment, then Ruth had foolishly tried to analyse the situation.

"I suppose he couldn't get past it," she told Ros, referring to Colville, perhaps trying to excuse what he had done.

Ros had given a soft noise of derision.

"People are fools," she had murmured, smooth as silk and ten times as cold. "They spend their lives trapped by their past, hanging on to it like to a life-vest in a storm – too scared to move on, to let go." She gave a twisted little smile. "What they don't realise is that the storm doesn't end until the show is over. If you don't swim, you are out at sea and all you have left is your regret."

Whether it was the sentiment or the words themselves, Ruth had been struck with a strange sort of clarity. Watching Ros, she had realised that the Section Chief's statement more than applied to herself.

"He was hurt," she murmured, trying to justify her earlier words. "He was grieving."

"Jack..." Ros drifted off, looking distraught for just a moment, then quickly righting herself again. "Jack was a fool. He should have at least tried to reach out to those around him. To live. The storm is going to go on. Whether we like it or not." Then, pulling a slightly irritated face, she walked away.

Her own words seemed to have disturbed her, thought Ruth, watching as her colleague crossed the room and gathered up her things. They probably held too much truth about her own life, to be altogether comfortable. With their debriefing over, Ruth knew exactly where Ros would be heading. To a hotel which Harry had arranged for her, her home address now being compromised. She would do her usual day off routine; wine at the bar, isolation amongst the crowd, dark rooms with strangers. Vetted strangers, of course – that was how Ruth knew – but strangers all the same.

Ruth supposed there was an attraction in it. Alcohol to numb the pain. Physical comfort to soothe the toil inside. She could also not help but think it was just another life vest to grab onto, however, and that Ros was not swimming for land but rather riding the waves further into the sea. To Ruth, it looked like submission to her fate, like self destruction. Still, at least Ros was making a concerted effort to do something with what time she had left. At least Ros did not go home to her empty house every night and cry herself to sleep, too scared to take a drink because she feared she wouldn't be able to stop – too scared to pick up the phone and reach out to anyone because she knew who she wanted to call. That would just be pathetic.

Closing her eyes, at her desk, Ruth exhaled heavily. She _was_ just pathetic. She had spent the last two months seething in anger – angry at the world, at herself, at Harry. As life had gone on around her, the anger had dwindled, slightly, and all that she had left now was the confusion over what to do next. Did she continue as she had planned to and emotionally cut herself off from everyone in her life? That idea had its merits. It could not possibly hurt as much when it was all ripped away again. Still, it was doing exactly as Ros had said. Wasting away the rest of her scant time here waiting... dwelling. Ruth knew she wasn't a fool, so why would she want to do that?

But what was the alternative?

Forgive Harry? She was pretty sure she already had.

Forgive herself? She couldn't do that – not completely, not yet – but she supposed she could start to try and move on from here. Maybe self-forgiveness came with time.

Lifting her eyes off her desk, Ruth considered her situation from as dispassionate a viewpoint as she could manage. She was grieving for a lost husband and son. She was guilty over her part in their loss and the complicated way it had come about. She was ashamed that she was still in love with Harry, despite it all. Her anger came from grief and guilt, not from any solid basis. Any sane woman would take this information and turn it into a reason to let go. Grief was a process, as Harry had told her years ago. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. She had rushed through denial and straight onto depression. Then, after the numbness had faded, anger had hit her like a freight train. It had continued on, mixing in with the other two stages and forming a potent mix of animosity towards the world around her. Ruth had wallowed in it. She set herself up a life of compromise, forcing herself into contact with Harry both as punishment and comfort for what she perceived to be her crimes.

It had been an incredibly indulgent way to behave, she thought, in retrospect. In the past, she had always put other people first. Her own grief, her own feelings, would be set behind theirs. This, she supposed, had all been akin to a nervous breakdown for her. But now, suddenly, it was over and the difference was startling. Physically, Ruth felt as if all of her muscles, which had been bunched up and tense for the past few months had finally relaxed. She felt somehow more whole. Better. Human again. The pit of her stomach was no longer tight and constantly aching. She no longer felt her heart beating in her throat. She could smell and taste the air again. Relief. It felt like relief. She was not dying of grief and guilt. She was still human, after it all.

And Harry was still here.

Her eyes hovered over the form of him, leaning over his desk, as she sat at hers. He had been so good. So clipped and professional during their working hours but trying, every now and then, to seek forgiveness in private. After she had snapped at him a few times, he had stopped trying to have a personal conversation, but he persisted in seeking her out in the early and late hours on the Grid. He persisted in asking stupid questions about her reports, just to drag out their interactions for longer than was necessary. Though he clearly held himself back from saying anything, his feelings were still there and very obvious in his eyes. In private, that was. During work hours, he was every bit the spook he had always been. Self denying. Self controlling.

Exhaling heavily, Ruth watched Harry scribble something down then tap against his keyboard. He looked weary and isolated. A little frown and rub of his forehead, was enough incentive for Ruth to want to fix that last part. She had been hurting him for the past few months and it was more than time to start making amends. Standing up, she brushed her skirt down, grabbing a file in her hand and, repeating the internal mantra that he deserved some sort of apology after the way she had treated him, proceeded towards Harry's office.

The Grid was busier than it was normally at this time of night, even considering the aftermath of today's case, but nobody bothered her on her way. Whether sensing the purpose in her walk or simply as a concession to the lateness of the hour, nobody threw her any enquiries about the current case, or requests for information.

Ros's desk was empty. Lucas was still at his but, after only the most cursory of glances her way, he looked back down at the old file he was flicking through. His body language told Ruth that he was either up to something personal or knew she was. As she passed Tariq's darkened lair, the techie's eyes also remained averted, something Ruth was particularly grateful for. Tariq had a habit of innocently asking the wrong question. Twice already they had struggled through uncomfortable conversations that had skirted far too close to her and Harry's personal history. Stepping past his seat, then, she slid Harry's door open, knocking the side of it once to announce her intention to enter.

"Yes?" Harry answered, from his desk, without looking up.

"Hello,"

Ruth stepped into the room and slid the door closed behind her – a movement which caused Harry to look up properly from the file he was poring over. There was mild surprise on his face, when he did so. Ruth knew why. Shutting the door meant she was staying a while. It also meant she did not want their conversation to be overheard. This clearly added up, in his spook mind, to being either very important or very personal. Or both.

"Ruth?" he asked, as she made her way over and stood opposite him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she played with the file absently for a few seconds then noticed Harry's eyes were darting towards it. "Oh, this is just an empty file," she gave a little shake of her head. "I needed a prop."

Harry's eyebrows raised, ever so slightly.

"A prop?"

"Something to do with my hands."

Ruth swallowed.

The urge to run away was tickling at the back of her psyche. Over the last few months, she had efficiently conditioned herself to avoid any situation which might result in emotional response, between her and Harry. Now, here she was seeking such a situation out. This was insane, she told herself. She was not ready for this. Still, she could not bear the thought of drowning in her regret any longer. She was moving on from the angry stage of her grief and, suddenly, the idea of punishing herself for the rest of her life did not feel like such a smart or necessary thing to do. It felt juvenile and stupid and – as Ros had intimated – downright foolish. Ruth knew she was not a stupid person. In fact, in the great scheme of things, she was actually rather intelligent. And she was not a cruel person either. That meant, logically, that she should probably stop punishing herself and certainly stop punishing Harry.

Logically, Ruth told herself firmly, she needed to make amends and move on. It did not mean betraying George's memory. She just didn't want to fight any longer. She did not want bad feeling between them.

"I want to talk," she managed, eventually.

Harry stared, expression caught halfway between the one he wore when presenting a case before the team and another which Ruth had only seen him use once or twice – something that was just for her. Despite the situation, it made her heart skip a little faster inside her chest, just to see it.

"...I want to talk about us," Ruth rephrased, swallowing after her words.

Harry's eyes darted towards the door, then to her face again, perhaps trying to determine whether this was some cunning ploy to draw him closer then make a stab at his heart. Ruth knew she should not be surprised. She had been quite cruel to him, over the last few weeks. Every now and then, she would grow weak and let them slip back into their old ways, then she would realise what they were doing and jump away from him again, tearing any semblance of reconciliation he had been starting to stitch between them. He had grown cautious through experience.

"I've been..." she began, then paused, searching for a word.

Harry leant forwards slightly, however, filling in her silence for her.

"Ruth, you don't have to do this," setting the pen he had been writing with down and closing the file he had been perusing.

Ruth half frowned, catching him in her gaze.

"I do," she told him. Then, forcing herself to continue, nodded "I'm sorry."

There was a very long and potent silence, during which Harry did not move his eyes once from hers, but started to nervously tap his thumb against the file on top of his desk and swallowed twice. Nervous tics. Ruth knew them every bit as well as she knew his face – the way his forehead creased with worry, the curl of a lip, the dip of his brows. As he watched her now, she saw all the little things that had changed, too; more fine lines around his eyes, a little less weight in his cheeks, a little more grey in his hair. He was still fair. There was still a sheen of gold beyond the grey, more obvious now because he wore it slightly longer. She decided she liked it that way. Not that she had resolved it was altogether okay to like anything about him yet, she reminded herself. This was meant to be an apology, not an opportunity to stare at him.

Gathering herself, she pressed onwards.

"I have been taking how I'm feeling out on you and I would like to apologise for that. I didn't mean for this to affect our working relationship."

"Our working relationship is fine," Harry pointed out, a little quietly. His eyes said that was not what he wanted them to be talking about.

"I know," Ruth blustered. "I meant..." A flutter of discomfort rushed through her. This was more difficult than she had expected it to be. "You've been trying to make this easier, to bridge the gap, and I've been..." Ignoring him, treating him like a criminal, acting like a first-class-,

"-you've been grieving," Harry finished, tilting his head forwards. "I understand."

"Harry, I've been _really_ horrible to you," she blurted out, inching a little closer to his desk.

She was suddenly worried that, though the doors were closed and the walls thick, that people would sense the wretchedness of her apology in the air and judge her for it. Funnily enough, however, there was no judgement in Harry's face as he looked up at her. In fact, her words seemed to have prompted a tiny smile from his lips and genuine warmth to his eyes.

"I'll survive."

"Well, I want to apologise anyway."

"Consider it accepted." He leant back in his chair, a strange look on his face – relief and something else mixed in. "Now, am I allowed to apologise for my part in all of this too, or will that set us back another few months?"

Ruth gave a slightly reproachful look.

He countered it with a raised eyebrow and not even a twitch of concession.

Blushing, Ruth cleared her throat and looked down.

Sometimes she forgot how they used to be – that, before all of this side-stepping around each other, they had worked so beautifully. Harry had known exactly when to play hard and when to tread softly. They had chatted and joked and laughed and argued well. They had been playful and tender, exactly when they needed to be. They had been an incredible fit. It had been a truly awful twist of fate, what had happened to them.

"You don't have to apologise," she eventually muttered, knowing it was going to earn her a reprimand, but feeling obliged to voice her opinion on the matter. "Honestly, I think we both understand that what happened, with Mani and the uranium, had to happen the way it did."

Harry regarded her with an expression of slight longing, for a moment, then he nodded and turned his attention down to pick at the end of one of his nails.

"That is the way I see it too," he admitted. "I _am_ very sorry, though – not that I am deluded in thinking it makes the slightest bit of difference."

Ruth heaved a sigh.

"Of course it makes a difference, Harry. It means you're human. It means you care." He looked a little pacified by that comment and they sat and stood in silence, for a moment longer, before Ruth spoke up quietly. "I understand that you had to make that choice."

"We were caught up by events," Harry agreed. "What happened happened. It was unfortunate."

"Do you regret it?"

It was only as the words left her mouth that Ruth realised they were rather inflammatory. She was about to attempt to snatch them back, or explain them with further explanation, when Harry replied calmly.

"I regret all of it," he answered, simply, "but, looking back, I would not have acted differently."

Ruth felt a flash of anger, which quickly dwindled away into a curious mix of love and exasperation. She had known this, of course. She had known that Harry believed wholeheartedly in what he did. He always had done. It was part of why she had fallen in love with him, all those years ago. Still, it was hard to hear from his lips that he would see George die again, if he had to. She understood why – she knew it was right and she respected and admired him for it – but it was not easy to hear. Should he have been put in the same situation again, he would make the same choice. And what if it was her, she wondered, would he still let them pull the trigger? She wanted so badly to ask but she knew she couldn't. It was not fair.

"I know you had to," she reiterated, instead, her voice quiet.

Harry watched her intently and then wheeled his chair backwards, slightly. For a moment, Ruth thought he was going to stand and walk around to her and she almost panicked and backed up, but then he ducked down, sliding something out from underneath the farthest corner of his desk. She frowned, watching him intently until he reappeared, grasping a large black duffel bag. Standing, he pulled it up and set it on the table, carefully. It made a gentle clunk against the wood.

"What's that?" Ruth asked, staring down at it.

"When we faked your death, all of your things were initially seized by the Service for inspection," Harry told her. "Afterwards, they were supposed to be passed on to family or destroyed, according to your wishes. Yours were to be destroyed but I had a moment of weakness and liberated some before they were." He threw a slightly sheepish glance her way as he pulled back the zip on top of the bag. "I hope you don't mind. I saved some things I thought you'd want, just in case. I put them in storage after two years but I could never quite bring myself to throw them out. It felt too final."

Pulling the bag open, he pushed it across the table towards her.

Ruth accepted.

"I was going to give them to you weeks ago," he said quietly, as she stepped closer and reached inside, withdrawing the topmost item. It was a well-thumbed book that she had left on her bedside table – a book he had given her, years ago. Her heart fluttered. Harry cleared his throat. "But things were so... tense."

Eyes flicking back up to his, Ruth wondered if there was anyone in the world more adept at a well-employed euphemism than Harry Pearce. Tense indeed. Watching her back, her boss cleared his throat and looked uneasy.

"How did you choose what to keep?" she asked, setting the book down and picking up an old photo album, the memory of its contents brining a smile to her face.

"I know what I would have wanted." He shrugged. "I ran with the assumption that our wants would be similar."

Ruth's smile turned into a wry one.

Their wants coinciding; it was an assumption which had led to their downfall before. Never once had they been at the same place at the same time. At first, she had been crushing on him when he had been completely oblivious. Then she had been falling in love with him while he had been starting to lust after her. Then he was in love with her and she was too scared to let him in. After that, there was the grief and circumstance to add to the list of complications. But, Ruth supposed, those were all just complications. What Harry had wanted and what she had wanted had not been so perilously different. She had wanted someone. He had wanted someone. They had both wanted more than what they had in their lonely lives. They had wanted each other – for whatever reasons and to whatever extent. Perhaps it was not such a silly assumption.

Running her finger over the cover of the photo album, she placed it on top of the book and dug around, finding a few old trinkets she had kept in a box under her bed, things that a non-spook would not have deemed worthy of keeping but Harry – in his infinite wisdom of hidden places and secret spaces – had known were important. She smiled as she dug deeper, finding a hair pin.

"This was my favourite."

"I know."

She glanced up at him. Of course he knew. She wore it often enough and, as clueless as he was about some things, Harry was an excellent spy and excellent spies noticed the details. He probably knew what her favourite clothes, foods and colours were. Despite never having been anywhere near intimate or open with one another, he probably knew far more about her than any one of her partners in the past. He saw the little pieces of her that most people would miss. He had seen the worst and the best of her, and the everyday. He knew her perhaps more completely than anyone ever had or would again.

"There was a stone on the mantelpiece. Did you keep that?" she asked, digging through the bag.

Harry shook his head.

"No, I don't think so."

"Oh," Ruth tried to hide her disappointment with a shrug. So it seemed they were not telepathically linked after all. "It's okay. It was a bit of a long shot. I know it didn't look very important."

Harry watched her closely.

"What was it?"

"The stone?" Ruth gave another little shrug. "My father dragged me up some infernal hill when I was ten. I didn't want to go but he forced me out of my bed, at five in the morning, and we walked for hours. The stone is from the top, where we watched the sun come up."

Harry watched, brow furrowed very slightly.

"It was the last thing we did together, before he passed away," she explained, feeling a rush of blood to her cheeks.

This, again, was the sort of emotional thing that one did not share with one's boss. It was a strictly close friends and lovers sort of story and she was not sure why putting things right, between her and Harry, suddenly meant it was okay to get close to him again. It shouldn't. That was not what she had intended, by going to apologise to him tonight. She had meant for it to provide her a way to move on. She had not meant for it to be a possibility for them... They couldn't...

"It's just a stone," she dismissed again.

"I'm sorry I missed it." Harry told her, sincerely.

She gave a short, slightly nervous laugh. "Harry, it's a stone. I would have had to have been worried if you _had_ taken it."

They watched each other for a moment, then he yielded to her comment and let out a tiny smile.

"I suppose so."

"What else did you..." she was about to continue but her fingers closed around the smooth edge of a glass bottle and she frowned.

Pulling it out, Ruth realised almost immediately it was not something which had come from her house. She had, admittedly, had a few bottles kicking about when she left, but this was not a name she immediately recognised. A quick turn over and scan of the back, however, told her what it was. White burgundy.

Taking a moment to gather herself, Ruth raised her eyes back to Harry's. He was watching her with a completely impassive expression. Guilt, she read, between the absence of lines on his forehead. He could only look so completely impassive when he was feeling guilty. This was his addition, then, to the bag. And not too recently, she noted, eyes dropping again to the vintage on the wine. This was nearly six years old. Taking into account the fact that the vineyard would not have sold it until it was at least two, she was forced to deduce that he had bought it around the time of her departure.

"This isn't mine," she pointed out, a little unnecessarily.

Harry shook his head.

"No, I bought it years ago."

"Then why is it in here?"

"It was going to be a gift for you. After you left, I didn't want to keep it," he explained, just a hint of emotion coming through in his eyes, now.

"A gift for what?" Ruth asked, frowning slightly.

Harry lowered his eyes.

"The answer to that is an emotional one and, while I am very glad that you and I are finally talking, I don't think you would be entirely ready or willing to hear it."

Ruth blinked. It was so very thoughtful and so very 'Harry' of him to preface an emotional answer with a disclaimer, but she couldn't not know now. True, what Harry had to say would probably be something which would send her into paroxysms of panic. Sure, it would probably send them scuttling back into the vicious circle of grief and anger which they had been chasing for the last few months. But he couldn't just say something like that and then leave her hanging. She wanted to know. She needed to know.

"I'm willing to hear it," she said, very softly, "if you're willing to tell me."

Harry continued to pick at the end of a file, lining it up parallel to the bottom of his desk, perhaps ignoring her.

"Harry, I won't stop talking to you again," she tried, to reassure him.

Harry frowned, not looking particularly convinced.

"Please?" Ruth tried eventually.

His expression flickered, resolve faltering. Ruth felt inwardly guilty that she had stooped to the level of pleading – knowing that Harry had never refused her when she had prefaced it with that word – but her need to know the story kept her staring forwards and her eyes on his.

Eventually, Harry relented. "I bought it because it was the wine we drank, when we went to dinner," he told her, with a little sigh.

"White burgundy," Ruth nodded, feeling a little touched that he had remembered. "I generally like white, you generally like red, so we compromised."

"It is not just the same type of wine," Harry explained, slowly. "It is the exact wine we drank."

Ruth frowned.

"The same brand?"

"Same brand, same vendor, same vineyard, same batch, same barrel." He looked back down at his desk again and tapped his fingers against the file again, as he quickly fired of the next sentence. "I bought it from the restaurant the morning after we went. I thought it might be nice to have... for the future." Only once he was finished did he glance up, presumably to check that she was still in the room.

Ruth, who very much was still in the room, just stared. Inwardly, she was trying to reign in the sudden urge to walk around the desk, close the two feet or so between them and wrap her arms around his neck. She knew that he cared. She knew that he had imagined them together in the longer term, but to have done something like that on their first date... Had he really thought they would last, that early?

Outwardly, she could not help but let her face fall into an expression of surprise. Harry, being sweet. Harry, being hopeful. It was something she had not seen in him for a very long time. For the past few months, it had been all hardness towards the outside world and hurt longing towards her. Even in their gentler moments, he had been very guarded. This, this was opening up again. And she could not run, not this time – that would be incredibly unfair after promising she would be able to handle this.

Looking back down at the bottle, she ran her thumb over the neck of it.

"Thank you," she said, in a small voice. "That was incredibly thoughtful."

Harry shrugged and cleared his throat, clearly quite glad they weren't about to go into any more depth on the matter.

"I was trying to show off," he told her, dismissively.

Ruth's lips curved into a smile, despite the awkward, heart-fluttering nature of the situation.

"Well, you would have succeeded," she admitted to him.

"Good to know."

She raised her eyes.

He was smiling, just a little – smiling in that sad way he sometimes did on the rare occasions where he had talked about his children, or other good things which had come to an end. They were over, she realised, with a strange jerking feeling deep in her stomach. He was going to try and move past this and move on. It was as if the last few minutes of conversation had told him that that was what she wanted; that her anger, before, had not been an interlude to them healing as a couple. The expectation was gone from his gaze. The love was still there – though he hid it well, Ruth knew him and could see it plain as day – but the expectation that this his feelings were going to lead somewhere had all but vanished.

She shouldn't feel sorry, Ruth reminded herself, placing the bottle back in the bag alongside the other trinkets she had removed, and zipping it back together. (She would look through the rest when she was home). She had wanted this. She had wanted them to be on speaking terms again, without letting them get too close. Too close meant guilt and anger and shame. Too close meant risk and danger. They were good at a distance, they had always worked well as professional and professionally friendly. This was what she had wanted. So why did she feel like a small part of her was being ripped away, when the expectation had left his eyes?

It was only sensible he was giving up. She had hardly given him any reason to hope for more. Not a mention of how she still felt, not a hint at a future together, not a single request for dinner, or coffee, or a drink. If she did, Ruth thought, everything would tumble back into possibility again. Maybe in a couple of years she would be able to have a drink with him and for it not to be mistaken as a move towards something more than friendship, but she could not make that offer now – not without knowing what came with it. If she asked him out for a drink, now, that meant she was interested. That meant she wanted to rekindle things.

Giving her boss a tight smile, Ruth gathered the straps of the bag together and ran them through her fingers.

"I'll bring the bag back in tomorrow," she told him.

"No rush. It's my old gym bag." He gave a little wince. "As you might be able to tell, it doesn't get an awful lot of use."

Another helpless smile crawled onto Ruth's lips. Whatever else lay between them, he still made her laugh. He still made her feel good.

"Thank you," she told him, softly.

He nodded.

"You are most welcome."

They stood watching each other for a moment, then Ruth nodded firmly and turned back to the door. Tugging the bag onto her shoulder, she clicked off through to the Grid and settled back down at her desk. It was now just past twelve in the morning. For the first time in a long time, however, Ruth felt no desire to run home to escape the pressures of work. For the first time in a long time, she did not want to run because of the possibility of bumping into Harry. It was only a little step, but it was a step forwards. Things were getting better.

.


	8. Chapter 8

_Set season 8 during first part of episode 8_

_NB: There are a few lines pinched directly from the episode in this chapter. Obviously, the bits you don't recognise belong to me while the others belong to the BBC and Kudos, et al – although if anyone is up for putting together a clandestine tactical unit, breaking into archives and stealing them, then I'm completely game. = )_

_. _

_Chapter 8_

.

The building in which the MOD International Incident Briefing was being held was tall and made of vanilla grey stone. Slotted in between two buildings of brick, it looked appropriately sinister, behind its tall black iron fencing, appropriately 'government', in Ruth's eyes. The long windowed frontage of the place was decorated by five or six enormous columns, which held up the stone columnade. She stood behind one of them as she waited for Harry to emerge.

The situation was a tense one. Ruth had come here to brief Harry on his way back to the Grid. It was her lunch hour, technically, but she had not protested when Ros made the suggestion – some part of her wanting to get Harry alone so that she could get an accurate read on exactly how serious the situation was. She knew the data, of course. She knew the data better than him, in fact, but she was not privy to the faces that Harry would be facing right now, across the MOD briefing room table. Her job in all of this, as always, was to collate what the team managed to dig up and pass it on to Harry,. Harry's job was to test the water, then prod the sharks. Leaning back against the column, Ruth was personally quite glad that her responsibilities ended at the great oaken doors of Thames House. Fronting up to the CIA and SIS in the boardroom were things better left to those with the stomach for them.

As a mark of how long she had known Harry, she was able to pick out his footsteps coming down the hall before she even saw him. She straightened up accordingly, moving towards the door. As her boss emerged, buttoning a coat against the seasonably cool November wind, she slipped into step alongside him, giving him a tight smile in greeting. Harry, as usual, launched straight into business.

"Reports are correct. Indian sub, forced up by the Pakistani military, forced into Karachi harbour, where the TV cameras are already whirring."

"So what happens now?"

They had come to a stop at the bottom of the steps on front of the building. Harry, having pulled on his coat and gloves, was now taking a moment to look mildly irritated by the whole situation.

"General Ali's already been on Pakistani television, crying about the capture, meanwhile the Indians have issued a deadline of a week for the return of the sub, otherwise all bets are off."

Ruth winced.

"Deadlines are bad."

Harry nodded a little. "Somebody will have to blink."

They turned as a car drew up and Harry muttered the identity of its occupant. Russell Price. CIA director in Europe. As the pair of them watched, a tall thickset man emerged from the car, pushing dark hair to one side of his face. He had the look of a cat about him, Ruth noted, as he approached. Smug. Self satisfied. By the way he and Harry were eyeing each other, she was willing to bet there was some nasty history brewing just below the surface. She supposed it made sense. Harry had always been more of a dog person.

The CIA director introduced himself abruptly and made several off-the-cuff comments, his bored drawl just a touch too bored for Ruth to feel that he was taking the situation to heart. She pulled on the requisite polite smile anyway, however, turning to face him as he told Harry about a build up of troops in Kashmir and the pair of them discussed the Pakistani view on the Indian military threat. It was only once he mentioned that the estranged Pakistani president, Mudasser, would be possible to work with that she felt the need to step in and speak.

"Except he's not calling the shots anymore," she reminded the two men, glancing to Harry, then back to Price. "General Ali has used the Pakistani military to sideline his own president."

"Then we need to get Mudasser back and isolate the hardliners on both sides." Price gave an irritating quirk of a shrug, as if this was a fairly obvious and straight forwards task. Ruth felt an indignant huff brewing within her, but she held back. On her right, Harry continued to watch on with silent contemplation. "Once we get the talks started," Price continued, looking (if possible) even more smug, "we'll kick some ass."

As he turned and walked away, without so much as a goodbye, Ruth turned back to her boss.

"He seems confidant," she commented, snidely.

Harry frowned.

"Sixty five years we have had a nuclear deterrent and not since the Cuban missile crisis has it seemed to likely to be used," he muttered, clearly not dwelling on the CIA man's slightly rude exit. His brow was marked with two thin lines, a thoughtful expression. He was putting the pieces together, all of the details he had learned from his interactions today along with all of the information she had given him this morning, in report form.

Ruth followed his line of thinking as best she could. The seizure of the submarine so shortly after Nightingale had stirred up Hindu-Muslim tensions, across the world. This was another play by the conspirators. This was their move towards check-mate.

"You think the submarine was a calculated pretext," she finished Harry's thought, a frown to match his creeping up across her forehead.

He gave a little nod.

"Somebody is pushing this right to the edge."

Ruth let out a slow sigh.

Behind them, the car which had dropped Price off pulled slowly alongside and then past them, snaking off around the side of the building, its oil-black paintwork glimmering in the early winter sun. Ruth watched it go then turned back to Harry.

"Back to Thames House?" she asked, wondering where his driver was. It was rare for Harry to linger outside any building for very long. She wasn't sure if it was personal preference or simply advisable for a man in his position – she had never asked.

Catching her eye, however, her boss shook his head.

"I need food or I'm going to fall over."

She blinked.

Of course. It was lunchtime and Harry had been in with the MOD since half seven.

"I can bring something back, if you're too busy," she eventually managed, but Harry overrode her.

"No. I've been in meetings all morning and I'm set for another, to brief the DG, when I get back. I need some fresh air first. If I go back there right now, I'm like to say something I will later regret. When I'm penned in and hungry I tend to get..." he paused, searching for a word.

"Cantankerous?" Ruth suggested, trying to be helpful.

Harry glanced at her, something of amusement in his eyes.

"Actually, I was going to say irritable, but your word _is_ more onomatopoeic."

A hint of a flush crept across her cheeks.

They stood and watched each other for a moment, then Harry's posture changed, slightly, growing a little less sure.

"I was thinking of popping out somewhere on the way back," he told her, sliding his gloved hands into his coat pockets. "I'll call ahead and arrange for the team to convene in two hours time. We can brief on the situation then."

Ruth hovered.

She wasn't sure if this was an invite or simply Harry asking her to get the team together for him while he went off to lunch. She wasn't sure what to say, to either. To the latter, obviously she would do her job, but she would be a little miffed to be sent on her way – whatever the complicated history they shared. To the former... well, she still wasn't exactly sure where she and Harry stood. There was a great deal of residual awkwardness from her months' long campaign of iciness towards him, but he seemed to have forgiven her for it. He had been very professional, at work, and, in the rare occasions that they found themselves alone, very thoughtful. He had made it clear that he wanted them to be friendly again, but he had not pushed. He had intimated that he still cared very deeply about her, but had always been mindful of moving too fast. He had been rather wonderful, really.

Ruth's mind flitted back to a week or so ago, during their operation to disrupt the Hindu-Muslim terror attacks. During some conversation, perhaps about the young boy they were using as an asset inside the group, she had reached out and pressed her fingers over his own. It had been reflex. She had done it simply because she had known it would feel good for both of them. He needed reassurance. She needed to reassure. A few months ago, that would have sent her into paroxysms of shame but not now.

Now, whenever she felt happiness, she still felt that tiny flicker of sadness – because George would was dead and she couldn't change that – but it was much fainter than before. Time heals. Her mother had told her that old adage. Her grandmother had told her too. It was passed down by their parents, to their children, who promptly ignored it as those before them once had too. Time healing was hard to see, when you were in the middle of misery, but here on the other side, Ruth thought, it made slightly more sense. Though it had been a painful journey, she had made it through the grief. She was still in one piece and standing. And Harry was standing next to her.

"You could join me, if you like?" he asked, a little tentatively. "For lunch."

She breathed out slowly. This was an invite. Did she dare accept it – today of all days? It was just another step forwards, she reminded herself, and she had been making little steps towards him for weeks. Why not, then?

"Okay," she said simply, giving a little nod. "Lunch would be nice."

.

To his credit, Harry chose a small, unobtrusive place for them to eat; a cafe set street back from the river, about halfway along their route back to Thames House. It was pleasant inside. Dark, but not dark enough to be oppressive. Small, but not so much that their conversation would be able to be overheard. Most importantly, of course, it was informal and littered with people about their age and social station, discussing business and stock markets and governmental policy over sandwiches and coffee.

They fit in. They blended nicely.

Ruth picked the seat with her back to the window, the spook in her knowing that the spook in Harry would want to have his back to the wall. When he had taken her out to dinner, all those years ago, he had surprised her with their seating being in the middle of the room. She had jokingly commented on it and he had admitted, a little sheepishly, that – however cliché and stereotypical it might sound – it did bother him just a little. He had spent so many years in training and in the field that it felt unnatural to put aside his tradecraft, even just for a few hours. Seeing that this was going to be (whether they liked it or not) an emotionally delicate situation, Ruth thought it best to give him the position he would find most comfortable. After all, it didn't bother her having her back to the door. She had someone to watch it for her. And a more protective or capable someone there could not be found, she thought, with just a hint of pride.

They ordered coffee and sandwiches and Ruth filled him in on some of the details the team had gleaned, during his absence that morning. At past two, the place was not as crowded as it would have been a few hours beforehand and they had plenty of room around their table to provide a buffer for eavesdroppers. The rest of the customers in the places were all in twos or threes, also, lessening the chances of them being overheard due to increased conversation. They hushed up as the waitress came to give them their food but, for the rest of the time, were able to speak fairly freely.

"Do you think they will take it to the end of the week?" Ruth asked Harry, as she set her knife and fork down, having finished her toasted sandwich.

Her boss watched her pensively for a moment, over the rim of his coffee, then gave a half-sigh.

"I don't know," he answered, honestly. "I don't know if this is the end game or something to precipitate it. Prompting nuclear war seems a bit extreme, even for our conspirators. I suppose we have to evaluate what they have to gain, by wiping everything in the region out."

Ruth gave a little shrug, picking up her own coffee, stirring it absently.

"A new start, without Al-Qaeda's training camps to worry about? A weakened India, to make other countries' economic failings look less severe?"

Harry gave a soft noise of disgruntlement. "And the resulting nations to be re-born in blood, with the situation therefore sure to worsen, in ten years' time. What hope benefit could they possibly see in all of this, in the long run?"

"Immediate gain can be as good a motivator as any," Ruth reminded him, watching Harry's fingers slide across the outside of his cardboard coffee cup. They were only a few feet away and she wanted to reach out and take his hand, just to feel it. Just a hand – that's all she wanted. Sometimes, she liked to imagine what it would be like, if they were together. Oddly enough, she didn't think moments like this would be all that different. They would be closer, perhaps. They would allow themselves to linger a little longer in each other's gaze. "Does Lucas have any leads on Sarah Caulfield?" she asked, gently pulling herself back to reality and the corporeal world she and Harry inhabited.

"Nothing new." Her boss shook his head. "Tariq thought he had an idea earlier but it petered out. What with what's going on, I'm going to have to drop her from the priorities list, for the moment – put a junior analyst onto it for the time being."

A tiny surge of pride shifted through Ruth as she thought that she had once been a junior analyst. She had once been the one who Harry would pass on the Grid and give instruction, not really paying attention to. Now look at her. Senior analyst. Their Section Head's trusted confidant. She hope that her value as an employee played at least as big a role in getting her here as their personal relationship. She was almost sure it had. After all, Harry could be sentimental but he was not stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination. He allowed her to be his confidant because he trusted her professional judgement. Implicitly. He had told her that once, not so very long ago. Implicit trust.

Now that was something valuable, she thought, taking a long draught on her coffee. Could they ever have had implicit trust, had they been lovers? Personally, yes, she thought they might be able to manage that. But both personally and professionally? Would he not consider her emotionally compromised, her advice tainted somehow? Who knew, Ruth told herself honestly. They would never know what they could have been like, or whether it would have worked, without trying it. As she had learned the hard way, loving someone was not something that could be explained in theory.

Giving a grunt of irritation, Harry pulled himself to his feet, unhooking his coat from where it had been draped over the back of his chair.

"We should get on," he told her, motioning towards the clock. "Briefing and the DG to see to."

Ruth eyed him, then finished the last gulp of her coffee and nodded.

"Let's go."

They rose and she moved to walk after him, depositing a couple of pounds to the table to add to his tip because – though Harry had insisted he pay for lunch, stressing that it had been his idea to drag her out of her way in the first place – this was not a date and, if it was not a date, she should really at least try to pay her way. (Despite having seen a copy of Harry's most recent paycheck and knowing he was hardly going to starve for the rest of the week, on account of buying).

Moving towards the door, Ruth drew up alongside her boss and pulled her gloves back on, smiling as he did so too, in unison – then smiling again as they both winced upon pushing out the door into the cold. They really had known each other a long time, she thought to herself. They knew each other's ways, they fit in well together. They were as perfectly fitted for one another as two people could get. And, for this reason, she couldn't believe that Harry thought she had forgotten what day it was.

Falling into step beside him, as he turned right along the pavement, she cast him up a half-smile and waited until he realised her watching.

"Ruth?" he asked, once he had, raising an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

"I heard a curious rumour on the Grid, this morning," she began, with just enough lightness in her voice for him not to worry.

His eyebrow raised a little more, throwing a little 'v' of wrinkles up across his forehead.

"What sort of rumour?"

"Well, word is..." she paused, just a little teasingly, "its your birthday today."

Harry's expression shifted rapidly, a flash of delight that she had remembered, followed by a larger surge of something which Ruth would have called embarrassment, had it been on anyone else's face. As it was, Sir Harry Pearce did not show embarrassment. He did self-deprecating quite well, though.

"Ah, thwarted." He gave her a sideways look, reaching out to humour to soothe the slight pinking of his cheeks. "And here was I thinking that I could look forwards to another year of pretending to be twenty-nine."

A chuckle crept up from Ruth's throat but she tried to keep the mirth at a minimum. She didn't want to make a big deal of it. She had promised herself she would not make a big deal of it – because making a big deal was something that strictly-colleagues would not do. A big deal was something that friends and lovers did and, while she was fine with being Harry's friend, now, the situation could easily be misread, by him or from the outside.

"Well, I thought I should wish you many happy returns and all of that," she bid him, as they crossed the road and began to walk north along the Albert Embankment together, heading towards Lambeth Bridge. "I thought of buying a gaudy card, but I couldn't quite find one to fit the sentiment." She held her breath after she had said it, wondering if a joke at the expense of their labyrinthine relationship was really a little too far. To her great relief, however, Harry's mouth simply twitched in a smile.

"I'll bet," he replied, simply.

The sounds of their feet off the pavement sounded loudly for a few steps, as neither of them said anything. Then, Harry glanced back down at her.

"Is there really a rumour?" he asked, tentatively, after a few moments of pondering.

Ruth looked up, feeling a little warmth run through her.

"No, Harry," she assured him, trying not to let her eyes grow too soft. "I just remembered, from before."

"Oh, good."

He faced back ahead as they walked along and Ruth thought, though he was clearly trying his best to look relieved – presumably that the rest of the team did not know it was his birthday – he could not entirely wipe the delight from his eyes. Seeing it, she inwardly congratulated herself for making the right choice and not buying him cake at the cafe. It might have been a little too much. This was clearly as much fuss as anyone had made over his birthday in a long time – possibly since the palava the Zaf and Adam had made of it, nearly five years ago.

"You have a gift waiting, in your office," she told him, after they had walked a little further along the river.

Their footsteps seemed to have slowed, slightly, until they were almost sauntering. It seemed that, after their pledge to leave the cafe in time to get back to their briefing, neither was particularly looking forwards for their lunch break to end. What with such a heavy task lying on the horizon, it was unusual for both of them but, Ruth reasoned, the team had not even been briefed yet. It wasn't as if either could be any more use anywhere else, for another thirty minutes. And they had been brainstorming the case, earlier. They deserved just a moment's break.

"You didn't have to," Harry told her, throwing her a gentle frown. "The gift, I mean."

Ruth gave a little smile in reply, knowing what it was.

"It's not really a proper gift. More for sharing. If you don't like it," she added, as they turned onto Lambeth Bridge and began to walk across, "then you can give it back to me, for Christmas. Or my birthday."

He laughed, softly.

"You _are_ a pragmatist."

"And _you_ are an idealist," Ruth joked back, gesturing between them. "The others would never guess. They think we're the other way around."

In response to her statement, Harry's eyes softened and loitered over her face.

Watching back, Ruth realised this time she had gone a step too far.

Since she had come back, she had been being very careful about letting on how well they knew one another. It only solidified the team's perception of them as having a long and intimate history and she had been desperate to prove herself as something other than Harry's ex-love interest, taken back on by MI5's charity for having been a good little spy and faking her own death. She had been desperate to prove her own professional worth. Now, she supposed – out her, with only Harry – it didn't really matter. Still, it was a departure from the norm and it set her slightly on the back foot. Uneasy for the first time since they had left the cafe, Ruth cleared her throat and turned her attention back over onto the river.

They walked across the rest of the bridge in almost silence, neither quite sure how to follow up what had been an uncharacteristically friendly, yet beautifully familiar conversation. As they turned down past the great stone walls of Thames House, Harry finally spoke again.

"Thank you for lunch," he told her softly. "First birthday celebration I've had in years."

Ruth eyed him, hiding the pity that he would not want her to show.

"Incidentally," Harry paused, sounding as if he were considering holding back his next words then eventually deciding to plunge forth with them anyway. "Is that why you agreed to come with me?" he asked. "Because it was my birthday?"

Their eyes held very firmly for a moment, then Ruth smiled slightly and shook her head.

"No. I came because you asked me."

Harry looked both relieved and mildly confused – '_all I had to do was ask'_ possibly flooding across his mind as they watched one another.

Looking down, Ruth cleared her throat again.

"I'll get on and format the report from earlier so I can present it at the briefing. Tariq has some things to add by now, no doubt, and I'm sure Lucas will want to talk about possible leads on Caulfield."

A curt nod from Harry, who had slipped back into boss spook mode – only the faintest hint of warmth in his eyes telling Ruth that he was still pondering her answer and its implications to their future interactions together.

"I'll join you all in twenty minutes."

They hovered for a moment, not sure whether to say goodbye or not, then parted ways and headed for different entrances. Harry had to see the DG before he came back down. Ruth had to head straight to the Grid. Unspoken was the fact that neither of them wanted to frighten the other, by letting the team see them enter the building at the same time.

.

Ruth climbed up the stairs and sat at her desk. She ran through her reports and compiled something that looked semi-sensible for their briefing of the team on the India-Pakistan issue at hand. Attaching documents she thought she might need to explain minor points, she then forwarded all of it to the terminal in the briefing room, then set to work on the other tasks open on her system while she waited for the others. She analysed a new lead Tariq had brought her, on a possible link between a foreign trade minister and one of the known attendants at the Basel meeting. She ran several names, sent over by GCHQ, through her system. Then, she greeted Ros and Lucas as they arrived and prepared to head through.

As she stood and started through, she happened to glance over to the glass wall of Harry's office. Her boss was standing behind his desk, watching her back through the plate glass of his office wall. Clearly he had just arrived back from the DG. Catching her eye and giving her just the slightest of nods, he half-raised a small square of card towards her; a square Ruth recognised as being the tag that she had attached to the neck of his present – a present that he had bought for her many years ago.

Gifting it back to him, under most circumstances, might have been considered cruel. It might have implied that she did not want it. But Ruth had not meant it that way and she was almost sure that her note explained her intentions. By giving him back the bottle, she was trying to show that she accepted their history together – all that they had been and how it had made them who they were today. Her small, neat '_To share, sometime. To celebrate a good day_,' inscribed under the small '_Happy Birthday'_ at the top of the note were Harry's own words, from many years ago.

Celebrate the good days. Find redemption where you can.

She wondered if he remembered giving her that advice. She wondered if he knew how much it had affected her decisions, every day since. Perhaps he did and that was why he was smiling, as he turned back away from her, setting the bottle and the note on the far side of his desktop. Or, perhaps, thought Ruth, it was simply the way she had signed the tag.

'_Love, Ruth'_.

Holding her boss's eye for just a moment longer, Ruth gave a tiny, bashful smile, then turned back to the matter at hand. Report. Briefing. Case. There would be time to ponder the future later. For now, she had to help the team protect the present. They had one week to solve the mystery of 'Nightingale' before the conspirators pushed Pakistan and India into full-out nuclear war. For now, she and Harry both had work to do.

.


	9. Chapter 9

_Set season 9 during episode 1, after the main part but before Harry and Ruth's talk on the roof._

_._

_Chapter 9 _

.

The devastation on Harry's face, when he learned of Ros's demise, was something that Ruth did not think she could ever wipe from her memory. The pair had been close. Ruth had known it before, of course, but not realised to what extent until the aftermath of the bomb that killed their Section Chief. It had been a strange relationship, Ruth thought, viewed from the outside. Ros and Harry had never met up for drinks, privately, or spent time apart from at work. They had not been friends, as most outside the Service would describe them, but they had not been just colleagues either. They were bonded, through love and sacrifice. Siblings were the closest thing that Ruth could describe them as. They had been forced together by circumstance and found a way to work well together. They trusted one another, loved one another in their strange, mutually-detached sort of way. Ros had been the closest thing Harry had to family and now she was gone. And he was lost.

And he had asked Ruth to marry him.

Ruth wasn't sure what part of it angered her more; that he had asked her at a funeral, or that he had asked her at all – catching her in the throes of his nervous breakdown. And it was a breakdown, she had decided, looking back over events. Harry had seen the last things he cared about snatched away from him and he had rolled over to the terror of it all. As someone who had come through an incredibly dark patch, not so very long ago, Ruth knew she should not judge, but she could not help herself. What a stupid thing to do. He had been betrayed and lost a close colleague but, instead of grieving for her like a normal human being, he had selfishly flung himself at Ruth and asked her to fix it. And that wasn't fair, Ruth thought, because she couldn't fix him.

Harry was damaged and broken. He wanted to wash himself clean again, but that was never going to happen. People like them didn't get to start over again – Ruth knew that from experience. They could move on, they could change the way they lived their lives, but they didn't get to wash away the pain and the anguish they had seen. That was a luxury they had (knowingly or not) sacrificed when they had signed up for this. Harry couldn't expect her to make it all better. And, though she could never find it in her heart to be angry for him asking what he had – as the sentiment clearly came from love – she was angry at where and why he had done it. At a funeral, because he felt bad.

She had been making slow and gentle progress back towards him, in the weeks before Ros's death. After the anger and grief of their reuniting had faded, she had realised she was not ready to give up on them just yet. But a desire for friendship and maybe something more did not mean that she was ready for Harry to lay all of his hopes for future happiness on her shoulders. That was not fair. Any decision they made, to move forwards together, had to be made _together_. It had to be mutually beneficial. Harry couldn't expect her to have all the answers, or to be able to heal his aching, tired heart with a single word, because one single word wasn't going to do it. She could not just snap her fingers and say 'yes Harry' and make it all better. It was something Ruth had never thought she would have to say about her boss, but he had been completely naive and off the mark with this one.

Nonetheless, she did pity his situation. She was genuinely sorry that he was hurting and that he didn't know how to heal himself. Her pity was probably why, when he suggested that they all go to the pub and have a drink to commemorate their lost colleague – almost a month after Ros's funeral, on the evening that HR had placed her name on that horrible black memorial wall – Ruth accepted. Earlier that day, they had stopped two submarine bombs from detonating in central London. They had won, for once, and Ruth knew that Ros would have appreciated the victory. So, she decided to go.

Slinging her coat on and her bag over her shoulder, she had joined a rather morose Lucas, perky new officer Dimitri Levendis, the two junior analysts who had worked with Ros longest, Tariq and Harry as they shuffled towards the exit. In near silence, the six made their way down and away from the river, seeking out the loud darkness of The George. The walk down was cold and pretty much silent. Once they arrived, however, Harry bought a round and polite conversation sprung up around the table. Tariq and Lucas sat and told the others stories of the incredible things Ros had done, in Service to the country – stories that Jo must have told them because Ruth knew that some of them occurred before either of the men joined the team.

After half an hour or so, two other field officers joined them, having just come off duty; two people who Ruth had never noticed as being particularly close to Ros, when she had been their Section Chief. That said, they were all part of the same team. They had as much right to be here as anyone else. A colleague's death affected the unit as a whole and these officers were young. They had yet to acclimatise themselves to the suddenness with which people could be snatched away.

Ruth could quite vividly remember the first memorial she had sat through, the first time she had tasted the sting of mortality. Losing Danny, seeing his youth cut short, feeling that terrible realisation that their doing good was not taken into account when it came to life and death; it had been life changing.

Danny had been a hero, yet he had died. Ros had been a hero, yet she had died.

Lucas raised a glass in toast to their fallen colleague and bought the second round. Dimitri pushed in front of Ruth to buy the third and Tariq did the same with the fourth. By the fifth, conversation was beginning to flow easier. Talk had long turned away from Ros and onto the case they had just closed. They discussed Dimitri's success on the ship and the terrorists they had stopped and the dour mood began to fracture with the occasional joke and gentle laughter. The team began to cheer up a little, apart from Lucas, who shifted between charismatically engaged and staring off into the distance, looking utterly despondent.

He had been the last to see Ros alive, Ruth reasoned, it made sense that her memorial had affected him more than the others. Still, she thought it might be more than that. Sarah Caulfield's betrayal, the accumulated events of the last year, the memory of his eight years in Russia – it must all have made the weight of the future seem that little bit heavier. And Lucas's shoulders were clearly already sunken with the weight of his past.

Tariq, Dimitri and the others looked better than their new Section Chief, but still a little shaken. They were all very young, thought Ruth. For some of them – namely Tariq and the prettiest of the junior analysts – this was their first real brush with death since joining the service. They had not really had to face up to the reality of a spook's short life span yet and, though Ros had never been particularly friendly to either of them, they had all worked very closely together for the last year. Closeness counted. The long hours, the constant contact, the things they had to face together; it counted more than in most workplaces.

Ruth made sure to take a moment with them each in turn, to ascertain that they were all coping. Technically it was Lucas's job, as Section Chief, but Lucas did not look in any fit state to be reassuring anyone. And neither did Harry, their other superior officer. Harry looked downright awful.

She supposed she shouldn't be surprised, Ruth thought, as she eyed him across the table. Harry had lost someone he cared about and then (in his eyes) lost her too, all within the space of a week. The proposal had been a stupid idea and even he would see that, in retrospect, but it couldn't have been easy, for him, to hear her rejection. Overcome and angry, at him reducing their relationship to a nervous breakdown, she had reacted slightly cruelly. She had pushed him away without explanation. She had refused to talk it through, or to tell him why. And that hadn't been necessary. She could have made clear exactly why she was saying no. Unfortunately, she had just been so irrationally angry, at the time, that she had just muttered something about bad timing and thrown his feelings out the window. She felt bad about that now. Poor Harry looked utterly miserable. Then again, Harry had always been particularly good at looking miserable.

As rounds six and seven slipped past, Ruth, who had been drinking orange juice since round four, was sobering up fast but Tariq, Dimitri and Lucas were starting to look a little worse for wear. The latter excused himself as the clock ticked over to ten o' clock, citing a need to get some fresh air but never coming back. After he had left, Tariq and Dimitri fell to flirting with the prettier of the four junior field officers, while the remaining ones poured out their life stories to Ruth. All the while, their boss just sat, staring straight ahead, out of the window. At first, Ruth thought he was watching Lucas disappear down the street but, after a minute or two, she realised he wasn't looking at anything at all. Just staring, with a strange expression on his face, one she had never seen before. Hopelessness. Utter loss.

That struck a slightly panicked note deep within her. Harry was always the strong one. He was the one the team depended on, to hold together. He couldn't be seen to be weak on front of the others. They were depending on him.

Standing up, she told the assembled group that she was buying one more round then going home. As they shouted out orders, she reached over and tugged Harry's elbow, slightly, asking him along after her.

"I need help with the glasses," she told him, as his eyes turned from the window, looking slightly lost and just a little brighter than usual.

"Yes, of course."

Dazedly, he stood up and followed her, through the throngs of people and over to the bar. Ruth gave the barkeep her order then asked for the drinks to be taken over to her table. Then, she steered Harry, by the arm, towards the door. Stepping out into the cold march night, she led them a few feet down from the entrance to the pub before turning to face him.

"Harry."

"I thought we were getting drinks," he frowned. "Why are we out here?"

"I needed a word," Ruth explained, taking a steadying breath. Harry had been pushing her away all day and she knew she had crossed something of a line, bringing them out here and along, but it was a line that needed to be crossed. Whatever painful situation they were in, she needed to think of the team. And the team did not need to see Harry like that. "What were you doing in there?" she asked him, quietly.

Harry's frown deepened.

"Thinking," he replied, with just a hint of warning in his voice. "Remembering. That's what this is supposed to be about, is it not?"

"This is about you showing them how to grieve properly, how to deal with her death with respect and dignity."

"There is no dignity in death," Harry muttered, darkly.

Ruth frowned.

"You have always had something to say, to help us, before. Why is Ros any different?" She paused, then asked, "or is this not about Ros?"

"Of course it's about Ros," Harry muttered. "Tonight is about Ros."

"But you're not thinking of Ros," Ruth pressed.

Eyes lifting off the pavement below them, Harry held quiet for a few seconds, then confirmed with a nod.

"No."

"Then who, Harry?"

Another long pause.

"Nicholas Blake."

Ruth blinked.

"What about him?" she asked. The dead politician had all but faded from her thoughts. She supposed Harry clung on for reasons of having known him better. He had taken Blake's betrayal to heart. It was the proverbial straw which had broken the camel's back. One too many friends turned out to be enemies. And then, to top it off, Blake had died of a heart attack before facing justice. But he had faced bigger disappointments with more grace in the past. And, in the grand scheme of things, he should be glad Blake was dead, rather than escaped with a slapped wrist for his part in the Nightingale conspiracy – Ruth certainly was. Frowning, then, she asked him again. "What about Blake?"

Half a minute passed. A muscle twitched in Harry's jaw. He stared at her, looking desperately as if he wanted to answer her but just was unable to, then the intensity faded from his gaze and he looked away, shaking his head.

"Never mind," he muttered, looking suddenly disgusted – at the thought of the dirty politician, or perhaps some other secret he had buried too deep for Ruth to resurrect . "Forget I said anything."

Ruth frowned.

"Harry..?"

"Forget it, Ruth," he reiterated, a little more forcefully than before. "I'm just tired."

No, thought Ruth, that could not be all this was. She had seen Harry tired, but she had never seen Harry like this. This was self pity at its deepest. This was Harry burning out.

"Harry, they are expecting you to lead them through this," she hissed at him. "They need to see you being strong, not giving up."

He watched her dolefully, then sighed, running one hand back over his head. He was not drunk, but he was obviously not far from it. However great a tolerance he had worked up over the years, he had nursed his way through quite a few glasses of whiskey this evening and it was affecting him. Standing just a few feet away, Ruth could see the dark pupils of his eyes and read the slightly uneasy way he held himself. He smelt of it too.

"I'm not giving up, Ruth," he told her, wearily. "I'm just done."

She stared. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I was serious, earlier. I'm leaving my letter of resignation with the Home Secretary. Once I serve out my notice, I'm through."

"Harry..." Ruth swallowed, hard. She had thought that would blow over. Harry had said Towers was going to sit on it for a few days. "You can't just..." she trailed off, not sure what to say, not sure what argument to follow.

How was she supposed to handle this, she wondered into herself. How was she supposed to tell him was overreacting without sounding callous? She understood that Harry was tired of all of the lies and the death, of course she did, but he had been in this game for years. It was not a valid reason to turn around and quit, now. God, it was not even a valid excuse! He was handing in his resignation because he thought it was going to be another quick fix. This was the proposal situation all over again.

"Harry, they're counting on you," she eventually murmured, watching him across the few feet between them. "They need you."

"They're all more than capable of taking care of themselves." Harry's eyes slipped over to the window through which he could see the corner of Dimitri's shoulder and the back of the two young analyst's heads. "They don't need me."

"They do," Ruth stressed, then added, after a little pause, "I do."

Harry's gaze snapped over to her, eyes cold and accusing, and Ruth had to lower hers to stop the guilt from burning her cheeks red. That last had been out of order. She had no right to try and play his emotions like that – not after turning down the opportunity to play a personal role in his life.

"I should go," he muttered, after thirty seconds or so had passed in dark silence. "I'm not doing anyone any good here."

"Probably not," Ruth admitted, "but they don't need you to do good. They just need you to do your job."

"Some days I hate my job," he said, in an almost-whisper.

"Some days, so do I."

There was a sad, heavy silence. Both of them stood, watching each other intently. Harry's eyes were dark and strangely intense. For a few seconds, it looked to Ruth as if Harry might turn on the spot and walk away from her. When he didn't, she took a slow, calming breath and forced herself to continue on.

"Harry, we don't get to pick and chose bits of this world," she told him. "It doesn't work like that - as you know it better than anyone. We have to go on. You have to go on. I know it's what Ros would have wanted."

"Oh, you know that, do you?" Harry asked, with just a hint of a sneer around his lips.

Ruth gave a small pause.

The sneer hurt but she knew she shouldn't take it too personally. He was emotional and angry at her and he was also right, in a way. She had not known Ros very well, in the grand scheme of things. But she had known her. As one spy to another. As one woman to another.

"She chose this life," she told Harry, firmly, pushing through the awkwardness of the moment. "When her father went to prison, she could have followed another path. When you and Adam faked her death, to protect her, she had the opportunity to start again, away from the Service, but she didn't. She stayed, to work for you. When Adam died, she was tired and grieving, but she still stayed. She devoted her life to protect and to defend. Now, she might be gone and you might hurt because of it, but don't delude yourself for a second that this wasn't what she believed in." Ruth took a half step forwards. "She would have gone on."

"And that makes it right for me to stay?"

"It makes it honourable."

"Honourable..." Harry gave a harsh little exhale, mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile.

Irritation spiked up within Ruth's chest, in response. She was trying, she was trying very hard not to let this discussion grow into an argument. She had kept her voice low and calm and composed, she had given valid reasons for all of her points. She had held herself back from telling Harry exactly what she felt about his ridiculous display of self-pity. Why was he trying to stir things up? Did he want to fight? Was that it?

"Harry, just think about it," she tried one last time, "that's all I'm asking. Don't do this now. Give yourself time."

"I've done my time," he rounded on her, eyes angry. "I've done everything I can, Ruth. I'm too tired for conviction and I don't have anything more to give."

"You have yourself," she told him, firmly, "and the conviction will return, in time."

He gave another strange, humourless half-laugh, tilting his head back towards the night sky.

"Harry..." she murmured, reproachfully.

His eyes swung back down to her, animosity glowing behind them.

Ruth sighed.

He was locked in. There was nothing else she could say, tonight, which would help him.

"Fine," she muttered darkly, suddenly completely fed up - fed up with Harry, fed up with the situation, fed up that she had even tried. "Go home and wallow," she spat, "that's very helpful. Leave me to deal with the others. We'll all be fine, by the way."

Harry opened his mouth, the tightness in his forehead telling Ruth that he was about to bite some particularly nasty retort, but was interrupted before doing so by untimely the arrival of Tariq, through the front door of the bar.

Both of them shut their mouths, turning to face him.

"Ruth and Harry!" The young officer turned his head between them, looking mildly unsteady on his feet. Drunk, thought Ruth, with a little sigh. She had known that was bound to happen. Dimitri and the others had been discussing drinking games, before she left, and Tariq had admitted earlier to her that he had never really drank spirits before. She was about to make her way over to him when Tariq started forwards, saving her the journey. Despite his inebriation, he somehow managed to stagger over to her side in a more or less straight line, using a nearby lamppost as an aid. Coming to a halt rather closer to Ruth than she was used to them getting, he gave her and their boss a grin. "What are you two going, out here?" he asked, slurring very slightly. "You're missing tequila."

Turning from Harry, Ruth moved to support her young colleague, allowing him to slip an arm around her shoulders and lean against her.

"How much have you had to drink?" she asked the young man, gently.

Tariq pinched two fingers together, indicating some infinitesimal amount then told her that Dimitri was buying shots inside. "I really like you," he added, leaning his head on the top of Ruth's. "You smell nice."

Ruth looked back over at Harry.

"Tariq needs to go home," she stated, unable to hide the disapproval from her voice.

Her boss eyed the pair of them, looking – if Ruth was not mistaken – suddenly a little bit ashamed of the mess he had allowed his staff to get into.

Well good, Ruth thought, deciding to leave him to it while she went inside to collect her bag and her and Tariq's coats. Her boss deserved to be ashamed and to stew in it for a good long while. He was being a complete ass.

"I'm going to go collect my things," she told him, coolly. "While we're gone, it would be very helpful if you could ring a taxi. If you like, you can share it. I personally don't think you should drive home but, of course, it is your call."

His gaze held hers. Unreadable. Ashamed. Angry. Uncomfortable.

They weren't used to this, thought Ruth, with a nervous little twinge of her stomach. They didn't do arguments, in the street outside the local pub, a little drunk and very emotional. They were Ruth and Harry; it had always been lingering looks across rooms and fraught silences. They didn't share their worries and fears with one another. To be honest, Ruth couldn't even remember them ever really having argued before and, standing so close in the aftermath, she realised that was why they had no idea what to do with themselves.

Falling back to her usual assumption, that ignoring the situation with Harry was probably the best way of dealing with it, Ruth set her jaw and headed back inside the pub, tugging Tariq after her. Pushing past the crowded bar, she made her way to the table, collected their coats from the table, pausing for a moment to reprimand Dimitri for letting the younger officer drink so much, despite knowing that he lived an almost tee-total lifestyle. Then, turning on her heel, she headed back out again. The ex-SBS man and the junior analysts watched guiltily after her as she went.

They emerged back outside to find a taxi waiting in the rank but Harry nowhere to be seen. Climbing in, Ruth learned that he had already given her address and a generous tip to the driver – in preparation for whatever damage Tariq might do to the upholstery – before catching a different car home. Irritated and a little bit disappointed that he really wanted to leave it like this, she sat wordlessly back in her seat and glared out the windows as they set off. Stubborn ass, she thought, watching as London's lights flashed by outside. Harry was a stubborn, self-pitying ass and there was no bloody good reason why she was still in love with him after all this time. It made absolutely no sense.

.

Her anger lasted her all the way back to her house where, thanking the taxi driver, she and Tariq had slalomed up her garden path – the young officer still using her as a human crutch – and inside. This was the antithesis of the rules she had set herself out when she returned, Ruth thought, as she led him to the spare room and let him collapse on the bed, coming back to place a bin and a large glass of water next to it a few minutes later. This was exactly what she had told herself she would not do.

She had let the team in again and look where she was; suffering sleepless nights after Ros had died, worrying about a despondent Lucas, babysitting a drunken Tariq; stuck somewhere between rage and love over Harry with no idea what to do about it. In short, she was a mess. Her head was a mess. Her heart was a mess. Her bleeding life was a mess. Still, she supposed, as she watched Tariq drift off into seemingly peaceful sleep, perhaps she had been wrong when she had decided to keep them all at arm's length. It never really had been possible, after all. They all spent too much time together not to bond. Perhaps, she thought, success in their trade was not a case of blocking everyone out but rather a case of letting the right ones in.

Tariq was a good man, she told herself, closing the door to the spare room quietly. Still almost a boy, really, but good all the way through. He was sweet and smart and kind and she should want to protect him in the small way she could. They needed friends, in this place. They all needed friends. Even Harry.

Heaving a sigh, Ruth headed back through to her own bedroom. She knew she shouldn't have snapped at him – or played into his need for an argument. He was hurting and that was understandable, after what had happened. Sure enough, he had been selfish in asking her to marry him like that and selfish for wallowing, tonight. It was not born from malice, however. He was just grieving. Underneath it all, he was still the man she fell in love with. Ros's death, her rejection, the usual terror in the workplace, their latest case and all of those who had died for his decision to release the EMP; it hurt him because he cared and she shouldn't have snapped at him for that. She could not even begin to imagine what it was like to stand in his shoes and make those choices.

God knows what the death toll on his latest choice was, Ruth thought, as she undressed and curled up in bed. They would find that out tomorrow when they began the cleanup operation. Tonight, they had only gone so far as to handle the media cover-up before going to watch Ros's name unveiled on that horrid black wall. The rest could keep, Harry had told them, prioritising as he always did so well. Tomorrow they would begin to rectify the damage caused by their latest operation. They would trace who it was who the girl, Talwar, had been working with and evaluate any future risk. Tariq, if he was up to it, would need to pull apart the hacker's laptop and figure out exactly how she enacted her attack. Ruth would have endless reports to handle. It would be a long day.

Maybe once they figure out what had happened it wouldn't seem so bad, she tried to reassure herself. Perhaps their death estimates would prove to be conservative. They had a twenty to thirty person maximum death toll, but that was worst case scenario. It could be wrong. Perhaps all three of the hospitals' generator systems had managed to start in time. Perhaps there would be fewer people with pacemakers and electrical implants, in the area, than was statistically predicted. Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as they thought.

She'd figure it out, Ruth told herself wearily, closing her eyes and letting herself relax into her duvet. She would collate the information, figure it out, write up a nice, concise report and deliver it to Harry with an apology. She would take him aside, in a quiet moment, and explain why she had turned down his proposal. Things could not get right between them again without that. Harry needed to know that it was not that she did not care about him. He needed to know that people like them did not get to start again. There was no easy fix. There was no happy ending. They had given themselves over to something bigger than themselves. They would die heroes, unheralded, unknown. Alone.

It should have been a noble enough way to go, Ruth reasoned, thinking back through the epic poems and novels she had read in her youth; the literary heroes of old. Perhaps one day, she thought, people would write stories about people like them and somehow, though no names were named and the message would be diluted through time, the purpose of what they stood for would shine through. Or maybe not. It didn't matter. What mattered was what they did, here and now. What mattered were their choices and their actions. Protect, defend, sacrifice.

She would see what tomorrow brought, Ruth decided. She would apologise. If she could, she would redeem herself and remain Harry's confidant, at work. That was what they were best at. Perhaps that was what they were meant for.

God, they constantly seemed to be arguing and making peace, these days. Hot one moment, cold the next.

Ruth sighed heavily, curling tighter underneath her sheets. She would apologise. They would work through this.

Things would be okay.

They would be okay.

.


	10. Chapter 10

_Set season 9 between episodes 5 and 6_

_._

_Chapter 10_

.

Ruth sat in the briefing room, with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her chin cradled in her hands. She was exhausted. It was half past two in the morning and, by all rights, she should be back home, tucked up in her bed. That, however, was not the case. Here she was, sitting in an evening dress and a shawl, debriefing after an operation that she should never really have had to be a part of.

It had been a last-minute arrangement. Harry had grabbed her as she made off the Grid, earlier that evening, and told her that he needed someone to plant a bug in a young French diplomat's hotel room before his meeting with their target, the next morning. The plan, Dimitri had explained – once the two of them coaxed her through to the briefing table – was foolproof. Andree Michel, the young Frenchman, had a thing for older brunettes, so Ruth would gain access to his room by allowing him to seduce her back there. Once inside, she was to suggest drinks and spike his with the tranquilizer that she would be carrying in her handbag. After installing the bug in an appropriate position, she was then to half-undress the man she had entered with and leave him there to assume he had fallen asleep sometime during their frivolities. The tranquilizer would put him out for about three hours and leave him with about thirty minutes of memory loss, the young officer had told her, so it was best to work quickly.

Ruth had never been involved in a honey-trap in her life – for good reason, in her opinion. Her initial reaction, then, was one of mirth. That changed, however, when she saw the looks on Dimitri and Harry's faces. They were serious about this. They actually thought she could seduce a thirty-something, not unattractive young Frenchman back to his hotel room.

But we don't want you to seduce him, Dimitri had argued back, when she had expressed her disbelief at his plan. We want you to let him seduce you. Men want what they cannot have, the younger man had explained, as Harry watched on awkwardly from the end of the table. Pretend you're a bored trophy wife, trying to amuse yourself while you're husband's at a meeting in some other part of the building. Andree Michel is a serial collector of other men's wives – he's had affairs with two out of four of his business partners'. He likes a chase, so give him one. Seriously, Ruth, Dimitri had smiled, add your sparkling personality to the mix and you should be fine.

His argument made more sense when Harry had apologetically explained that they had nobody else suitable to play the role. Still, it had taken a lot of convincing to get her into the evening gown and kitted up for the night. Beth Bailey had done most of it, taping the wire securely down her back and winding it into the hem of her dress, applying the hair and makeup as she tested Ruth on her legend. Once she was done, even Ruth had to grudgingly admit that it was a halfway decent job. She was never going to be a beautiful woman – genetics had not dealt her that card – but she was pretty enough, with her hair half clasped back, an expensive shawl draped around her neck and an even more than expensive dress wrapped around her back. It had been fitted for another operation, during which Beth had been playing an oil-baron's daughter, but it worked well enough. They were almost the same size, Beth had commented, tugging the sleeves smooth against Ruth's arms, but Ruth looked better in it. The dark colour brought out her eyes.

The operation itself had gone smoothly enough. Ruth had never been so nervous in her life, but she had Tariq's voice to guide her through. Tariq and, much to her surprise, (as it was rare for to see him personally oversee an operation of this size) Harry.

Her boss's disembodied voice in her ear was probably the only thing which had got her through with it; playing the bored wife of a much older businessman, making clever conversation about the young Frenchman's homeland as he wooed her back to his room. Concentrating on the static of her comm. line, to hide her disgust, she allowed Michel to slide his hands down her arms and kiss her neck. She let him sweet talk her for a minute, then distracted him with drinks, slipping two drops of the tranquiliser into his. As the younger man began to get hazy, the drugs taking hold, she guided him back to the bed, startling herself by not even feeling the slightest bit of remorse.

She had finally done it, she thought, as she unbuckled her target's belt and pulled off his trousers, listening to Harry's voice telling her '_well done'_ and to '_complete the objective'_. She had finally turned into a real spy, like all of the others around her. Spook, she thought, remembering Harry's words from all those years ago. She was a born spook.

The thought gave her confidence and, as Tariq muttered _'try and get the bug fitted inside the casing of the lamp, gazelle,'_ into her earpiece, she had nodded and gone to it. Slipping Monsieur Michel's shoes, shirt and vest off, so all that he was left in was his boxer shorts and his socks, she abandoned him to the after effects of the tranquilizer, (which would conveniently mimic an epic hangover) and turned to her objective of the evening.

The procedure was just as she had been talked through, back on the grid. Screw off the bottom part of the ceiling lamp, catch the trim, slip a hand inside and find the rim upon which the wiring sat. The bug slotted in just nicely, held in place by a piece of kit so new and inventive even Tariq had taken a while to think of it – blu-tack. Once finished, she had jumped back down to the ground and replaced the chair she had used to stand on, breathlessly reporting her success to the others, on the Grid.

'_Bug planted, home.'_

'_Then bring us in, gazelle,' _Harry's voice had told her, soft and proud and warm.

Ruth, high on adrenaline and the two glasses of champagne she had quaffed at the bar, whilst playing hard to get with the Frenchman, had all but skipped from the building. The feeling of success was liberating. For the first time in months, she felt light and strong and beautiful. She felt untouchable. As she was in the taxi back, however, the glow that had surrounded her out in the field began to fade. Yet again, she realised, she had prostituted herself for the service. Leaning her forehead against the cold glass of the window, she felt the victory fade back inside her.

Sure, the closest Andree Michel had got to her was a brush of his lips against her neck, but the thought was suddenly enough to turn her stomach. She felt nauseous. She felt slightly faint. And Harry had been listening the whole time, she reminded herself, darkly. Harry had talked her through it all. They were so twisted and broken, she thought, closing her eyes. What sort of man talked the woman he supposedly loved through the process of seducing another man? They were spooks, she tried to remind herself, born spooks – but was that enough excuse? Shouldn't their humanity shine through, just occasionally? Shouldn't his iron-clad control have flickered, just a little? God, she had been in this game for far too long to know, anymore.

Climbing out of the taxi at Thames House, she had made her way back upstairs and endured the applause from the small team still on the Grid. Lucas and Dimitri, who had been playing barman and waiter, arrived about ten minutes later and the three of them were led through to debrief, still in their finery.

After it was done, Lucas went home and Dimitri had slipped off to shower, Beth remaining in the briefing room to help Ruth remove the wire, which had been attached with a strange temporary glue-type substance, from her skin. (Ruth wasn't entirely sure why the glue had been necessary. It had been Tariq's decision, something about an earpiece not being suitable, in case the target was close to her neck, and glue being better than tape to hold this other type of wire in place, just in case it was warm and she was perspiring slightly. Technical officers...) Beth had just started stripping the substance painfully away from her skin, however, when a junior analyst had stuck his head in and called her away again. With a sigh and muttering that she wouldn't be long, she had left Ruth sitting as she was now; half-wired and exhausted, at the briefing room table.

That was almost twenty minutes ago.

Ruth sighed. She shouldn't have expected anything less. It was her place, in this business, to be overlooked.

Turning her mind from her situation and from self-pity, she concentrated on the sounds of the building around her. At half two in the morning, it was almost silent. All non-essential staff had cleared the Grid hours ago. Lucas had left immediately after the success of their mission, claiming a personal issue to sort out. It was just Tariq, Harry, Dimitri, Beth and a junior analyst hanging about now. There were none of the usual rings and noises from the hallway outside. Nobody on the phone, or rushing back and forth with files and coffee. Just the occasional, distant sound of a door opening and closing. Then nothing.

Ruth rubbed her forehead.

What was she still doing this, she asked herself. Why was she still playing this game, after all these years?

Footsteps, then a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Ruth?"

The door slipped open, Harry's head appearing in the frame.

Ruth felt a familiar stirring of nerves, deep in her belly, accompanied by a tiny flicker of ironic mirth. Here she was, neck and arms and upper chest exposed on front of Harry for the first time, and they were in the bloody briefing room, of all places. How typical.

"Hello," she greeted him, a little listlessly.

His eyes flashed over her, looking slightly worried. "How are you?" he asked, eventually.

"I'm fine." She pulled on a tight smile, trying not to look as if the situation was bothering her. "Waiting for Beth, but she seems to have forgotten about me."

"Yes, she had to run something to C Section – it was their man we were looking out, tonight." Harry gave an apologetic half-smile. "I should have asked her to finish up with you, first." His eyes danced over her again and his expression looked suddenly a bit more nervous. "Are you...?" he trailed off, not sure how to say this.

"Still wired." Ruth nodded, wearily. "I don't fancy tearing half my skin off, trying to pull free from the front."

"Right." Harry watched her for a moment, then stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him. "Would you like a hand?" he asked, slipping his own hands into his pockets, wearing an expression which told Ruth that he was fully aware of how awkward this was for her.

A little flame of warmth licked up within her.

Sweet Harry. It had been a perilously long time since she had seen sweet Harry.

Things had been very tense, between the pair of them, over the past few weeks. Her bungled attempt to explain her rejection of his marriage proposal, up on the Thames House rooftop, had upset Harry more than Ruth initially realised. It had been a good while before she had managed to reconcile the manner, too. Things had just been so confusing.

At first, as they had stood, facing each other on the rooftop, Harry had appeared to agree with her assessment of the situation. But then, over the next few days, he had seemed to change his mind. He started avoiding her at work, started acting slightly odd when they did have to interact – little things, so small that Ruth had almost convinced herself that she was exaggerating them in paranoid mind. As the days passed, however, it had become very clear to her that that was not the case.

Steadily, Harry had pushed her further from his confidence. He shied away from being alone with her off the Grid and refused to have personal contact out of hours. All of that, Ruth could have dealt with, but then he had started to get testy with her on the Grid, as well. He had snapped at her for doubting his judgement, on front of the others, and drawn back from trusting hers. He had been irritable, haughty and borderline dismissive. He had been a complete ass, to be perfectly frank, and Ruth had been completely taken aback by it. Never once, in their long history, had he been anything less than courteous to her. She supposed she was one of the few, but she had never had to see that side of Harry and having it directed so fully at her, had been quite startling.

What made it more confusing still was the fact that Ruth was not sure which part of what she had done it was, that had caused such offense. Sure, her explanation of why she had refused his proposal had been something of an excuse. (The fact that she couldn't see a place in their life for a cottage in Sussex and dinner with the neighbours was true, but she hadn't really told him the full story. The truth was, she could imagine them together, but not without a lot of compromise, on both sides – and considering that Harry thought they were some great 'fix-all' for all the wrongs in his life, she doubted that would happen anytime soon). Why Harry reacted so severely to her statement, however, Ruth could not understand. They had euphemised and glossed over everything they had done, over the past seven years. Why was this any different?

It was only after a week, or so, that she realised it was not _how _she had refused, but _what_ she had refused that was bothering Harry. Marriage had been, quite literally, all he had left to offer her. He had tried getting her to date him, tried pushing their friendship into something more intimate, tried giving her time and letting her come to him, tried comforting her when she was in pain, tried being patient, tried being kind, tried everything else. Marriage had been his last hand and he had misplayed it, badly.

He was frustrated. It was as simple as that.

He was hurt and frustrated and, with no other way to get what he wanted, he was throwing all of his toys out the pram.

Realising this, Ruth had resigned herself that there was nothing she could do. Harry would burn through his anger eventually, she reasoned, so she sat back to wait it out. She had treated his show of teeth with as much composure as she could manage. She overlooked the remarks that were meant to sting, rather than reacting. She refused to back down and avoid him, on the Grid or in his office. She began talking to him again, when they passed in the hallway, though he quite clearly did not want to. For a while, it had only seemed to make him worse – he had lashed out at the rest of the team and made a few rather dodgy field decisions – but then one of those decisions backfired and it seemed to stall him completely.

A man he had allowed to escape, in the field, had gone on to acquire a deadly biological agent and, suddenly, pettiness of what he had been doing seemed to hit Harry somewhat. He had emerged from his cocoon of frustration and started acting a little more like himself.

By the time the paroxocybin was in their custody and their suspects were either dead or dealt with, he seemed, to Ruth, to be more weary than angry. After all involved were debriefed and reports were handed in, the two of them had made their silent way down to a bench by the river and sat there, actually talking, for the first time in over a fortnight. On unspoken, mutual agreement, the subject matter of their discussion was restricted to work but, as Harry got up to walk away, he made some little comment; 'sometimes you have to give a man a chance, to show you who he really is' and Ruth had read the dual meaning of the statement in his eyes. He was asking for another chance. Cards run out, tantrum over, he was asking to be dealt another hand. He still wanted to play the game, despite it all.

Ruth had watched him go, afterwards, feeling completely and utterly worn out by it all. For just a second or two, she had thought she might be done. She had thought she might be through with the ridiculous, convoluted story they were weaving around one another, with the swings of high and low emotion, with insanely complex Harry and his insanely complex world. She had thought she might be done with it all. Then, she had sat for a minute and the slow surging of the river had soothed her frayed nerves.

This world was insane and complex, but it was her world.

Harry was dark and complex, but he was also hers.

They belonged here, together, and – while she stood by her decision to say 'no' to his proposal and she did not entirely agree with the tantrum he had thrown, afterwards – she had to admire his tenacity. Years on, countless pushings-away and rejections under his belt, Harry still wanted this. He was still pursuing her.

Perhaps, she thought, this was what had needed to happen before they could move forwards. Out with the old ways, in with the new. Perhaps this was what had been necessary, for Harry to realise that things could never go back to how they had been, before she left; to make him realise that all she was capable of, at the moment, was what she had offered shortly before Ros's death – to take him out for a drink, or to have coffee, or lunch sometime. She wanted to start again at the beginning and try and find a way they could fit into each other's lives, because marriage wasn't going to fix them. They had to find a way for them to work alongside their current commitments and multitudes of issues, rather than bulldoze through. Few battles were ever won by brute force.

That said, thought Ruth – looking up at Harry as he watched her across the room – if she recalled her history books correctly, quite a few _had _been won by tenacity.

A low sigh escaped her throat.

He had offered to help and, tonight, she was too exhausted to read any further into it.

"Okay," she admitted, lowering her palms to lie on the table. "I could do with a hand."

Harry stood for a moment, looking a little surprised by her decision, but also a little pleased. He nodded. Walking over, he pulled one of the chairs around, so that it was arranged closer beside Ruth's. As he cautiously took up residence in it, the analyst felt a quiver pass through her, pulling with it a wave of nostalgia.

How many years had they been doing this, she asked herself, as her boss leant forwards and inspected the wire and the back of her dress. How many years had they been placing themselves just close enough to feel each other's heat? Five years? Nearly six? A tiny smile graced Ruth's lips as she pulled her shawl up around her neck, feeling Harry's fingers ghost against her shoulder to. Six years. It had been a long dance, even for two people such as her and Harry. Six years...

"I'm afraid Beth is a little enthusiastic about securing these in place," Harry commented, as he reached out and tugged gently at the wire on her back, only the over-lightness of his voice betraying the unease he felt at being so close to her. "Apparently, Dimitri still has the red patches on his back, from last week's adventures."

Ruth could see why.

"I don't understand why we couldn't use one of the small pin mikes," she told Harry, reproachfully. "They're much more convenient."

"Yes, but the audio we can get off these is off the charts, in comparison," Harry explained. "We actually managed to pick up most of the conversations that were happening in the restaurant and in the private conference room next door, while you were chatting to Michel, in the bar." He threw her a slightly awkward look. "They are still a little experimental, we don't know exactly which scanners we can get them through, but I reasoned it was a minimal risk situation. There were no security gates, no one was going to be patting you down, and Dimitri and Lucas were nearby anyway, in case anything did go wrong." He paused, glancing back to her nervously as he picked away the first few millimetres of glue.

Ruth watched him steadily back. She knew he was expecting her to react to being given experimental equipment to test, but she didn't have the heart to have moral objections, tonight. Tonight, she was just far too tired.

"Did you get everything you needed?" she asked, after a moments' pause.

Harry looked up, eyes just a little darker, hinting that he wanted to answer her question in a strictly non-professional sense.

Ruth swallowed. Over the last few days, as they had started to work together again – as they had the team had stopped the Chinese from getting their hands on Dr Jiang and destroyed the desalination technology – they had begun to heal things between them again. They had started talking. Harry had started to seek her out to ask her opinions again. He had even made a little joke and a warm comment, or two, in her company. But everything was still at that delicate stage; easily fractured, easily broken, always just a wrong word away from sending them back to that dark place they had been inhabiting.

"From the bug, I mean," she clarified, meeting Harry's eyes steadily. "Is it a decent enough audio feed?"

"It's excellent." He held onto her gaze for just a second longer, then sighed and looked back down. "We had a little vibration of the lamp casing, at first, but Tariq says he should have the software to compensate by the meeting tomorrow morning."

"Sorry," Ruth apologised, softly. "I thought I had it in properly."

Harry shook his head, frowning at the glue on her back. "It is perfectly fine."

A long pause.

Ruth bit at the inside of her lip, watching her boss out of the corner of her eye as he went about his task. Rapt concentration was pressed across his face. Lines marking out a frown on his forehead, lower lip slightly petted as he became more absorbed in his movements. Unlike Beth, Ruth noted, he was taking time to soften the glue with his fingers, loosening it before pulling it free. It took a little longer, this way, but it was far less painful. Ever grateful for his attentions, Ruth thanked him gently.

"I'm sorry for keeping you," she added, with a half-hearted smile. "I'm sure you have more important things to be doing."

"It's no bother," he shook his head, in reply. Ever the gentleman, despite circumstance and awkwardness, despite the spine-tingling tension in the air. "Really it's the least I can do, for having you up so late." There were a long few seconds of silence, then he paused in his ministrations and looked back up, to meet her gaze. "I meant to thank you earlier, actually. You rather saved the day, by stepping in. We were going to use Rebecca Curtis to plant the bug but she came down with the flu."

"Rebecca probably would have carried off the legend better."

"Don't sell yourself short. You were wonderful, out there."

Swallowing hard, Ruth glanced sideways at her boss.

He was wearing no tie, or suit jacket, in concession to the lateness of the hour, and she could see the dark dip at the base of his neck through his slightly open collar. As she watched, the shadow in it danced a little faster, his breaths quickening under her scrutiny. In. Out. In. Out. Calm breaths, always, but just too even not to be forced. This facade of cool was just an act, then, she thought, turning her eyes back forwards but continuing to watch Harry out of her peripheral vision. He might look composed on top but, underneath, her boss was feeling the tiny glances of electricity that passed between them every bit as much as she. As his fingertips dipped beneath the edge of her dress, unpicking the wire from where Beth had entwined around the zipper, Ruth's breath caught slightly and the situation hit home for her.

She shouldn't be allowing this. This closeness was what led to most of their misunderstandings. Desire led to impulse, impulse led to action, and action led to tangled awkward moments; Harry moving too fast and her standing too still.

"I'm glad I didn't make a mess of things, with Michel," she murmured, trying to bring the conversation more solidly back to work. Work was safe. They were good at work. "I was fairly sure my hands were shaking from the moment I walked up to the bar."

"You did wonderfully," Harry repeated, his voice a little lower this time, just a little bit smoother. "He didn't suspect a thing."

"I almost slipped up, when we were talking about his job at the embassy. I almost let on I knew who he was."

"You didn't slip up, though."

"He almost caught me, too, when I was dropping the tranquiliser into his glass."

"But he didn't catch you, did he?" Harry glanced up. "You gained access to the room, took out the target, planted the bug. You managed everything we asked of you."

"I suppose so..." Ruth swallowed, thinking of her interactions with Michel, earlier that evening. "Still, I'm glad I don't have to do that every day."

A pause.

Harry exhaled softly.

"So am I," he told her quietly. "The urge to drive over there and throttle your target was a little overpowering."

Ruth closed her eyes, melting inside.

He had been bothered by it, then. The facade of professionalism had been just that.

She breathed out, slowly, falling into the pleasure of Harry's soft fingers, against her back. This was not fair, she thought dimly, at the back of her mind. They were not fighting anymore, but she still should not be letting them touch. She should not be closing her eyes or resting her cheek sideways, against her shoulder, to give him better access to her skin of the back of her neck. This was giving out mixed signals, Ruth told herself, as Harry's nails scraped slightly, against her skin. This was not fair; rejecting his offer for marriage then indulging in what was admittedly one of the most erotic encounters of her last ten years.

It was not fair at all, but she could not stop. He felt so good and she was too tired to protest. She was too tired to do anything, anymore. Thinking to the future was exhausting, thinking on the mistakes of their past was more exhausting still. It was all she could do to comprehend a way to survive the present. And, presently, Harry felt incredibly good...

She breathed slowly out as he leant closer, fingertips warm. His hands, so much larger and stronger than hers, drove shivers down her spine as they made their steady progress down into the 'v' shaped dip of the back of the dress. It was a conservative neckline, so they did not descend so very far, but he had never touched her like this before and every moment carried with it virginal thrill. Warm fingertips over skin. Ruth tried to slow her breaths, tried valiantly not to show her growing excitement, all the while knowing that he would be able to feel every quickening heartbeat through her back. She felt giddy, her body too warm, almost too alive, singing out with expectation. Harry's fingers rubbed and pulled. She was so tired. She didn't want to fight anymore. She just wanted to feel. Feel him. Feel this.

Harry traced down an inch, pushing at the neckline of her dress, feeling down the length of the wire. Fingertips gentle, voice soothing. "Almost have it," he murmured, rubbing at the last glob of glue. It tugged sharply against her skin, causing a little rush pain.

Ruth jerked back to reality, eyes springing open, head turning back towards Harry. He was only a foot or so away and his eyes were darkest hazel; little flecks of brown and golden-green around wide black iris; beautiful and intensely focussed on her.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I thought it had softened."

"It's fine," she whispered back, swallowing hard. They were so close. He had his hands on her back. She shouldn't have allowed this, she scolded herself. It could so easily end in tears. Still, she couldn't quite convince herself to feel guilty about it.

"Did I hurt you?" Harry asked, fingers hovering over the half-unpicked glue.

Ruth shook her head. He had a little, she supposed, but only a little and she deserved a little discomfort after all of the damage she had caused his heart, these past few weeks. "I'm fine" she told him, giving him a tiny smile. "I barely felt it." Stretching her neck, she took a moment to register the pleasure of not being restricted. Her skin felt her own again – almost. She frowned. There was still a tightness just to the left of her spine. Glue remaining. "I, I think you missed a little bit, though."

Harry held her gaze for a few seconds, that strange, veiled expression slipping across his face. Warm, but cautious.

Ruth squirmed slightly, inside.

Poor Harry. She did not blame him for being cautious, in showing his feelings. Look at what had happened last time, after all. He had thrown himself at her, asking all he had left to ask, and she had turned her back on him. Now, the ball was completely in her court and he had absolutely no control. And Harry hated not being in control. He hated all of this, she could tell. He was confused and hurting, over what she had done to him. He was completely at a loss for what to do next. He was frustrated because there was nothing, really, he could do. But, despite it all, the love was still there. That warmth in his eyes was love and it was still there, despite what had happened to them, despite what she had done to him. What had she ever done, Ruth wondered, to deserve such devotion?

"You know what," she murmured, suddenly feeling a little overcome and completely unworthy of the man sitting opposite her, "don't bother about it. I'll get it off later," She told him, shifting in her seat. She leant forwards, meaning to pull her shawl back up around her neck and stand up from her seat. She never got there, however.

Harry reached out, placing his palm flat on her back.

"No you won't," he told her, with an air of calm command to his voice that made her freeze in place. "Just hold still, for a moment." Giving her a slightly reproachful look, he slipped his hand up to the back of her neck again, fingertips seeking out the substance marring her skin. "Have some patience."

Ruth felt her eyebrows shoot up. The unease in her stomach suddenly vanished, on account of her disbelief. Have some patience? Have some bloody patience indeed. Who did Harry think he was, she asked herself? Her entire life was about patience. Harry was the impatient one. Fixing him with indignant eyes, she watched as he gave the back of her neck a rub, pulling the last few bits of glue free and feeling the tacky consistency of the residue it left behind. Have some patience, indeed...

"Pots and kettles coming to mind?" her boss asked her, quietly, after half a minute had passed.

Ruth felt her cheeks flush pink, in answer to his question.

Harry nodded, watching her intently for a moment, before returning his eyes to his work.

"I have been patient, Ruth." he murmured, eventually. "I know it doesn't feel that way, to you, right now, but I have been."

Ruth looked down at the table, tightening her jaw so stop herself from speaking. The truth was, she didn't think there was anything she could say, right now, which they would not later regret. Nothing had really changed, over the years, she thought. On the surface, their situation looked completely different. Underneath, however, they had the same base problem. She was afraid of change because of the risk of failure and Harry always pushed too fast.

"I know that, perhaps, I did not approach the situation in the best manner," he started again, voice a little hesitant, "but I wanted more, and-,"

Swinging her eyes sideways, Ruth met his gaze, interrupting his words.

"-Perhaps? Harry, you asked me to marry you. At a funeral."

Harry stared back at her. Wordless. A little cowed.

"It was a little impulsive."

"It was _too much_," Ruth stressed.

Harry sighed.

They sat and watched one another.

"Okay, I agree, it might well have been too much. But this..." he gestured around them, at their current situation. "Ruth, this isn't enough." He paused, his eyes travelling across her face, imploringly circling her mouth and her eyes. "It's been almost _six years_."

"It's been six years for me too," she pointed out, quietly.

"Well, I think I feel it, physically, more than you do."

Ruth blinked, slightly taken aback.

She had not expected that to come from his lips. She was not entirely sure what exactly he meant by it, either; that he felt the physical strain of their uneasy relationship, that he felt physical desire for it, that he had been without the contact he wanted from her for almost six years. If it was the latter, she could not help but feel a little surprised. But, she supposed, if she had not met George during her time in Cyprus, she would probably be in the same situation.

Six years of waiting. She eyed him, wondering if it was true, wondering if he had found his release the same way she did, wondering if he thought of her.

He probably did. She thought of him.

Swallowing, Ruth tried not to focus on how her muscles were suddenly aching with a combination of weariness and unrepentant lust. So much tension. So many years of accumulated want. Harry had been right, she realised, her fingertips tightening their hold against the side of the briefing room table. It had been a long time since she had seriously considered the physicality of them. In early days, she had spent a lot of time on the subject but, later, the way she thought about them had changed. She forgot, sometimes, in all of her idealising, that she and Harry were only human. She forgot, in her haste to analyse their emotional problems, that they both had physical needs eating away at them. She had placed sex aside, long ago, in order to consider what she had prioritised as their bigger issues. Now, just touching on the idea was almost overpowering.

Six. Years.

This was almost intolerable, Ruth told herself, looking away from Harry again. The desire. Her exhaustion. Their utter lack of ideas for what to do with each other, now. What were two people supposed to do, after all that they had been through? She wanted Harry in her life, of course she wanted him, but she how were they supposed to fit together in a long term scenario. They didn't make sense. They had never made sense. He could not fit into her life right now. She could not fit into his. Their neuroses and issues left no room for one another, alongside the chaos of their daily commitments.

For a long moment, the two of them sat in silence.

Beside her, Harry gave one last rub of her skin with his thumb, then pulled away, leaning back in his chair.

"All gone," he told her, smoothly.

"Thank you."

"Feel better?"

"Yes," she lied.

"Good."

Ruth watched him, mind reeling. What was this thing, between them? What were they? Something of the past? Something with a future? It was far too confusing. She was far too confused. And it was two in the bloody morning. It was too early to be sitting so close to him. It was too early for any of this.

She swallowed, hard.

A foot or two apart; it might as well have been miles, it might as well have been nothing. She could read every little movement of his face. She knew what he felt. She knew what he wanted and needed, yet she could not reach out and touch him right now. As much as she wanted to (and she did ache for him) she knew it wouldn't fix anything and she did not want them to start something which could only end in anger and regret. Conversely, however, she was too tired to pull away – too tired to fight anymore. So, she would stay the same, she decided, for lack of a better choice. She would sit tight, for now.

Maybe they would work something out, in the months to come. Maybe not. She was just interested in surviving the present, for now. She had more or less given up on everything else. It was going to take enough strength to salvage their working relationship out of this – never mind a personal one. She was going to have to earn back Harry's trust and his confidences.

She would not tell him her suspicions about Lucas North yet, she decided, watching him sit across from her, stripping the last of the glue from the wire and setting it back on the table. She was not in his best books, right now, and a disagreement about Lucas – who Harry trusted out of a mixture of familiarity and guilt – would be the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. But, she could not deny that there was something afoot, with the younger man. She was not sure what, yet, but she had seen him lurking in one of the server rooms, just before that business with the missing money that young officer Stephen Owen was arrested for. And there had been a flicker in Lucas's eyes when she told him about Owen, too; just a flicker, nothing more, but a tell nonetheless. She would keep an eye on him, Ruth decided. She would gather evidence before she came to Harry with anything. Hopefully it would all come to nothing.

And if it didn't, well, then Harry would have one more traitor in his life and a little more sadness in his heart – one more thing she couldn't fix.

.

Behind them, the door slid open and Beth Bailey came stomping in, heels loud against the hard floor. Taking in the scene, the younger officer either completely missed the tension hanging in the air (highly unlikely) or decided to ignore it, to avoid further embarrassment (far more likely). Fixing Ruth in her sights, she strode forwards as if nothing was amiss, heaving a heavy sigh.

"I'm sorry I took so long," she apologised, in a businesslike tone. "Officer C Section would have tied me to his desk and interrogated me for another hour if I'd let him." She turned to look at Harry. "I've given him the report and all of our recording details. Tariq is liaising over the audio."

"I hope we've kept the cover we got, of the restaurant and meeting room, to ourselves?" he asked her, calm and collected as ever – as professional as if the last few minutes and their semi-intimate encounter had never happened.

Ruth looked between him and their younger colleague somewhat admiringly.

Spooks. They were real spooks. She could only ever pretend to be like them.

"I've got it all covered," Beth nodded.

They all watched each other for a moment, then Harry gave a hefty sigh and stood, running one weary hand over his forehead.

"Then you should both go home for the night." His eyes passed over Ruth, lingering for just a second, just hint of the heat that had been there earlier flitting across his gaze. "Get some rest."

She nodded.

Behind Harry, Beth nodded too.

Harry turned and walked from the room.

A long moment passed, then the younger woman turned to Ruth and asked her if she wanted to share a taxi back. Nodding wordlessly, Ruth stood up and the two of them left the Grid together, collecting their belongings on the way out. It was oddly comforting, Ruth thought, for the first time since she had grudgingly accepted Beth into her apartment and her personal space. It was comforting to have someone to head home with. Even if it was the wrong someone. Even if the rest of her life was a shambles.

Closing her eyes, Ruth let herself nod off to sleep in the taxi back. Beth would wake her when they arrived and she needed all the rest she could get. The next few weeks were going to be a trial. She and Harry probably wouldn't even discuss what they had said to one another, tonight. They just didn't work like that. Neither of them were emotionally forthright enough. But maybe, she thought, in a couple days' time, or a couple of weeks', they would find themselves in another private moment and they might talk a little more – get a little further, sort a little more of the tangled web they were weaving around one another. She was just going to have to get through until then, she told herself, and cross any bridges pertaining to their future when and if she reached them. For now, she was just too tired.

Just survive the present, she told herself, the future will make sense eventually.

.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N - Very long chapter, but I had to get a lot in. _

_Set between seasons 9 and 10_

_._

_Chapter 11_

.

Ruth stared out the living room window of her townhouse, watching the sun stream through the leaves of the few trees that lined her street. It was early August and, at this time in the afternoon, the sun was that golden colour that it never was at any other time of year; a bit orange, a bit burnished, a hint of the season's change that was coming. The air was already markedly cooler than it had been, a few weeks ago. Today was a good day, however. The early autumn rains had held off, this year, allowing the season to stretch on longer than it should have. Despite this, Ruth had not had the time or inclination to enjoy any of it. Her mind was still reeling with the events of the past month and her part in it.

And Albany. And Harry.

He had given up everything, for her. It was never going to be an easy decision for Ruth to live with, but the unabashed love with which it was done had thrown her at first. She had been terrified, terrified and furious for putting her above everything else in his life, for saddling her with the moral responsibility that came along with that choice. He had thrown it all away, his career, possibly his freedom and his integrity as he handed over a state secret; and her sorry life was all that he had got in return. That and a verbal slap across the face, as she had told him it had not been fair of him to love her.

Despite her harsh words, Ruth's ex-boss somehow managed to convince someone (Ruth suspected the Home Secretary, who seemed to be a kind man, under all the bluster) to let him drive her home and explain the situation and what would happen, over the coming weeks. As Beth quietly excused herself to a friend's house, for the night, Ruth had dazedly let herself and Harry into her house and wandered numbly about the place, making tea and offering biscuits. Harry had followed her about until the pair of them settled in the front room of the house, curtains kept open so that Harry's security detail could keep an eye on him. As Ruth nursed her tea and stared at a stain on her carpeted floor, Harry talked them through everything that had happened.

Sitting across from her, still wearing his suit and tie, though he was now officially off the clock, he had explained that Albany was a fake. Ruth would like to have said that she felt relief, at this point, but all she really felt was more confusion. Overcome and at a loss for words, she had just muttered again that he was a fool, to do what he had done. Fake or not, she told him, Albany was a state secret and not his to give. Harry had not budged from his position, however, just told her that he would do the same again – a hundred times over. A life was a life, he murmured, with sincere golden-hazel eyes.

At this point, Ruth had pointed out that their people laid down their lives to protect secrets all the time.

Harry had watched her for a long minute, then said something which stuck with her rather harrowingly.

"It's about choice, Ruth. Every officer who goes into the field has chosen to risk their life, but you didn't chose. You didn't go. You were taken. That makes you an innocent and my job is to protect the innocent."

She had looked away again, unable to stand the conviction in his eyes. Not for many years had she considered herself an innocent. That he was using this as his defence made her feel sick, as if she had cheated her life out of all of this. She shouldn't have made it, she told herself, feeling a howl of sorrow catch in her chest, though no tears made it through to her eyes. She did not deserve to have lived. So many others had died, under similar circumstances. She didn't deserve any of this; her life, Harry, anything. Just think of all of the things she had done...

Albany had changed nothing.

They were still so broken. There was still no room in their lives for each other.

Harry had talked for a bit longer, after that point, but seemed to realised, fairly soon, that Ruth's heart was no longer in it. Bidding her a very gentle goodbye, then, he led himself to her door and tried one last time to make her understand his actions.

"It may have been misleading, what I said before." He told her, hanging half-in her doorway, fingers playing over the wooden frame and unease in his eyes. "I would not have given Albany for any life, but yours is not just any life. The things you have sacrificed, for this country, are innumerable. You have helped us save so many. You have given so much. You have _earned_ the right to be protected from something you did not lay yourself on the line to face." He swallowed, then, raising his eyes to meet hers. "And I won't apologise for doing so. Not to you. Not to anyone."

Ruth had wanted to say something, then, but she couldn't quite find the right words. So, she had given a shaky little breath instead, and nodded – not agreeing, just wishing he would leave so that she could be alone to her numb pain.

"I'll see you at the inquest," Harry had told her, softly. "Or afterwards. I know, after I'm dismissed, you technically won't be allowed to see me but..." he trailed off and flicked his eyes up to hers rather helplessly.

"I'll see you." she confirmed, feeling slightly sick at the possibility of Harry pushed out into the cold, because of her.

"Thank you."

He had breathed out, looking caught between heartbreak and relief. Then, clearing his throat, he took a step back away from her, and turned down the path.

Ruth watched him go, her muscles like ice, her stomach like lead, her heart numb. She watched him slip back into his car and pull off down the road, followed by a dark sedan which was parked a few metres away. His security detail. As he reached the end of the street and turned left, Ruth realised dimly that not once in their talk had she said thank you for what he had done. Wrong or right, he had saved her life, at great personal risk, and she had not said thank you. She felt the sudden and irrepressible urge to run after him, but then his car slid away from sight and she became aware again that she was barefoot in her doorway, and she would never have been able to catch him anyway. Then the tears came.

Numbness faded into absolute desolation and she cried herself half silly that night, curled up in her bed, holding a pillow against her belly and wishing it was another person, wishing she had told Harry to stay just so that she wouldn't have to be alone right now. She would have given anything, that night, to have him back beside her. She tried calling him, she tried calling him fourteen times in fact, but every time she did the phone rang straight through to his answering machine. His house phone did the same and she was far too incoherent to leave a message on either of them. Eventually, distressed and exhausted, she had fallen into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke in the morning, her cheeks were dusted with dried tears and she was endlessly glad that she had not got through to Harry. It would have been wrong, she thought, as she opened her eyes and took a look around at the world, feeling a strange sort of calm flowing through her. If he had come to her last night, it would have been for the wrong reasons, for guilt not love, and certainly not because he thought 'they' were a good idea. Rolling over and wrapping her blankets more tightly around herself, Ruth wiped the salt from her cheeks, looking around the room. Somehow, everything felt much easier this morning. Somehow, the whole situation she had found herself in seemed less dire. She had woken up with a plan fully formed in her head. And it was a plan that involved her and Harry.

Albany had changed everything.

They were still broken. There was still no room in their lives for each other. But, thought Ruth, they were still alive and that meant they could change the things that were wrong in their lives. They still had time left. And now, she had perspective too.

It might have been cliché but, that morning, every colour seemed a little brighter. Every scent seemed a little more potent. The very air tasted sweeter in her lungs. She was alive where she could have been dead and now, suddenly, all of the other things faded from importance in comparison. She had been an idiot. Harry had been an idiot too, but it was mostly her. Running. She had spent her life running. Even when she had thought she was standing still, waiting for life to come to her, she was still running. And you couldn't run, she realised. Life didn't allow for that. You couldn't run or wait, because then one day someone slips a needle into your arm and its all over.

That moment when her eyes closed over and the drugs from Lucas's needle had carried her away, she had honestly thought that was it. She had thought she would never wake up again, never see Harry, never breathe in or feel. She had been so scared and so full of regrets, at that moment. And, she realised now, she did not want to die like that again. Next time, she vowed – hopefully many years from now – there would be no regret. She wanted to die having said everything she wanted to, to everyone she wanted to. Things were going to be different, she decided, as she lay tangled in her bed sheets. She was going to change them.

Since that morning, she had started to put her plan into action. Slowly, surely, she had started to make tiny changes to her life – changes that would all come together, over time. It was not all easy. She still hadn't seen Harry since they had both been sent home on suspension and that gnawed at her, daily. After a week, she finally plucked up the courage to leave a message on his answering machine, apologising for snapping and suggesting they meet up to talk. He had sent her a text message back the next day, however, telling her it was probably for the best that they did not contact one another for a while, with the fall-out from Albany still hanging in the air. Bending to his opinion on the matter, Ruth agreed and tried to push the pain of being parted from him from her mind as she went back to work.

Returning was, as it had been before, was not as terrible as Ruth had imagined it. She did have to sit through a rather intense round of questions from the DG, and from the woman who would be her new acting Section Head, Erin Watts, but after that she was welcomed back onto the Grid with open arms. (After all, she was hardly the one who had committed treason. She was just the innocent damsel in all of this).

Dimitri hugged her and expressed his relief that she was back among them, 'to keep them all in line'. Tariq had not hugged her but, when he took her hand to shake it, he had held on quite a bit longer than was necessary, rather like a child holding onto its mother. When he let go and asked her if she thought Harry was coming back, Ruth had realised, with a sting, that she _was_ a pseudo maternal figure here and Harry played the corresponding part to hers. This was their family, she realised, with a strange sort of belonging in her heart. They had built this team, together. Dimitri was her officer – suggested after she had noticed a lack of field operatives fluent in more than two languages – and Tariq was Harry's – handpicked from a list of technical geniuses as long as Ruth's arm. And Beth? Well, thought Ruth with a smile, Beth had just been a fortunate accident.

They had built this team. They had created, together, rather than destroyed.

It was all the reassurance she needed that her plan was the right thing to do.

As the weeks passed, Ruth settled back in, the unease of Harry not being there never far away. It was strange to be working under the new woman, Erin Watts. She was pleasant enough, and always polite when Ruth spoke to her, but she was not Harry and she did not run things like Harry. Within a week of being back, she solidified Ruth's unease by firing Beth Bailey and bringing in one of her own field officers and two junior analysts, from Section A. While Ruth knew they were in dire need of more staff, she could not help but resent how it had all come about – and the loss Beth, who had proven that she deserved to be here, despite her slightly marred history. (Harry had understood that).

Despite being fired, Beth had hung around at home a little longer, while she searched for a new job in the private sector. The younger officer never said, but Ruth suspected that it was to make sure she was not going to suffer from a belated nervous breakdown and, though it was slightly unnecessary, she nonetheless appreciated the sentiment.

Eventually, however, Beth too had to move on too. That moment had come this morning, at half past eleven. Ruth had taken the day off, to help her load the last few bits and pieces into the back of her new company car (from whose number plate she had deduced exactly which private company Beth was going to be working for and exactly which sector of the British government they were contracted to). The younger woman had assured Ruth that they would keep in touch, as much as they were able, and they had hugged each other goodbye – something that Ruth had never imagined them doing, when Beth had first come to live with her. She had been so reticent about making friends with this woman but, in many ways, she had turned out to be one of the closest bonds she had formed over the course of her time here. It had been understated companionship; easy on the advice and emotional sharing, but always there for backup. She was going to miss Beth.

After the younger officer's car had pulled away down the street, Ruth had turned back inside and gone to make a cup of tea – a little break, in the day, to calm her nerves. She had taken her tea to the front room and sat for a while, and that was where she still was now. Sitting, staring out the window at the wind moving the trees across the street.

She shouldn't be still sitting here, she told herself. It was time to bring her reminiscing to an end and get back to the moment. She had somewhere to be. She had a plan to enact and if she backed out now then it would put all of the arrangements she and Beth had made this morning to waste. Not to mention, she added to herself, it would be going against all the decisions she had made about changing her life. She had vowed to change her situation, rather than letting herself be overcome by it. To do that, she needed to get up and go to this meeting.

Gathering herself, then, she stood up and made her way through to the hallway, rummaging through her coats and jackets to select one that was right for the temperature of the day outside. The warmth of summer was fading fast and she had quite a walk, to get to her destination. Pulling on something suitable, she slipped the essentials, keys and some change, into her pocket, then locked up and took off down the garden path.

The air outside was lukewarm. Breathing it in, Ruth noted tastes of autumn underneath the diesel scent of London and that calmed her a little. Reaching the street, she paused for a minute, eager to ascertain that there was nobody paying undue attention to her movements – her own security detail long being abandoned after she returned to work – then headed off in the opposite direction to that which Beth's car had followed, just half an hour earlier. She checked her watch as she went. She had about half an hour to get where she was going and the walk took about that. She would have to keep her pace up.

She had a plan to set in motion.

.

After walking a mile or so, she came to the large iron gates of a public park. Taking one last look around her, she slipped between them and started across the grounds. The grass on either side of her was still flecked with dew, the sun not high enough in the sky to have dried it out yet, so she stuck to the paths. Her feet crunched on gravel as she followed them deeper into the greenery, away from the large houses which surrounded the area. Sweeping down left and then around a slight hillock, Ruth walked for five minutes or so until she entered a more secluded area, shielded by a fringe of trees on the rise. The snakelike head of the manmade lake was glimmering, just a hundred or so feet away and there, on the bench, sat the person she had come here to meet.

A flicker of excitement passed through her as she spotted him and, automatically, she paused, but it was only for a second. Then, her feet sped up and she had to caution herself slightly as she approached. Not too fast now, she told herself, not too suddenly. Harry didn't like to be taken by surprise.

Despite her care to remain obvious on approach, however, he still startled slightly as she drew level with the bench and slowed to a halt.

"Ruth?" he asked, turning his head, eyes full of pleasure and apparent disbelief. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Automatically, it seemed, he made to get up but Ruth stepped closer and indicated that he remain where he was.

"I was just out for a walk," she lied, then nodded to the space on the bench next to him. "Is that seat taken?"

Shaking his head dumbly, Harry continued to gaze up at her as she smoothed her coat under her and took up position on the bench beside him. He looked all right, considering, Ruth noted, letting her eyes wander over his face and clothing. It was odd seeing him out of his work uniform of shirt and suit, but somewhat relieving at the same time. Part of her had expected him to be suited and booted, regardless of his now being on garden leave. The trench, jumper and chinos were oddly comforting, then, though unfamiliar.

"How are you?" she asked, a little breathlessly.

He gave a short sigh.

"I'm fine. I'm coping." He glanced over his shoulder, then his other one, clearly searching for the people who were supposed to be watching him. When he turned back to her, though he could not have seen them, there was a tone of reproach in his voice. "Ruth, you shouldn't be here..."

She gave a little shake of her head.

"It's fine."

"I'm being watched," Harry explained and Ruth noticed that, despite his voice telling her that she should go, his eyes were begging her to stay. "I've had a two man security detail on me every day for the past month." Again, he turned his head, this time a little further – to see right up behind them and then sweep down across the smooth grounds. A little frown formed between his brows, clearly in confusion over his sudden lack of voyeurs. "Actually, this is a bit odd of them. They've never made much of an effort to stay out of sight before..."

A tiny, enigmatic smile crept onto Ruth's lips.

"Maybe they're running two hours late?"

"No, they're from Internal Affairs. I'm fairly sure they were born with the clock tick-," Harry cut himself off, glancing back towards her as he suddenly understood what the lilt to her voice and the exact nature of her statement had meant. "_Two hours_ late, exactly?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes." Ruth shifted slightly, wondering how her boss (no, her ex-boss, now) was going to take this. "There might have been a slight mix up with the security detail rotas."

Unsurprisingly, his eyebrows rose even further.

"Might there really? Pray do tell, Ruth."

"Not much _to_ tell." She blushed slightly. "Apparently, someone hacked into the scheduling program."

"And here I thought I was just losing my ability to spot a tail," he commented, with the beginnings of a smile tightening the corners of his mouth. (Oh, how she had missed that smile...) "So much for our scheduling program being unassailable to external infiltrators."

He was pleased, Ruth realised, with delight. He was pleased that she had done this for him. She had worried that he would be angry at her for risking her own job, but – of course – he knew her well enough to know that she would have covered his tracks. And it was a nice gesture, wasn't it?

"It may have been an inside job," she admitted, courage bolstered by Harry's reaction. "Someone with level six clearance."

"And how did this person convince the previous shift that their replacement was a single woman?" Harry asked, eyes a little playful.

"She didn't," Ruth answered, with a bashful smile. "There might have been a second, rather convincing female officer, who helped pose as her partner." It had been Beth's parting gift, to the pair of them. Before she had left this morning, she and Ruth had organised all of this. "She sends her regards, by the way," Ruth added, nodding to Harry. "Told me to tell you to stop looking so damned morose."

Harry gave a soft chuckle, looking down at his folded hands, clearly quite touched by her words.

He didn't think people cared, Ruth realised, as she watched him avoid her gaze. He honestly believed that everyone he knew in the world would abandon him at the first sign of trouble. She supposed he had been right about that, in the past – she supposed he was right about some of the people who had abandoned him now that he was no longer an influential figure – but he was wrong about the team. The team cared. Tariq had turned back into his old jumpy, nervous self, without Harry there. Dimitri had sulked for the first two weeks. (That was, until he had worked one-on-one with Erin in the field and, Ruth expected, fallen head-over-heels in lust). The team missed him. She missed him, most desperately.

Taking a deep breath, she told him as much, looking out across the park as she did so, to avoid eye contact. "It's strange, you not being there," she added, watching light catch and dance on the ripples of the Serpentine. "Ever since I've been with Section D you've been there too. It's always been us, against it all, and now its just me."

He looked up, eyes sad again, though the smile was still around his lips.

"How are things?" he asked.

Ruth let out a heavy breath. She had been dreading this part of the conversation. It was always going to be awkward – not just because she and Harry had hardly spoken over the past month. Officially, Harry was only temporarily suspended, but she rather got the impression they were not supposed to be sharing anything with him, let alone the inner workings of the Counterterrorism department. And, besides whether it was right or not – because that didn't really matter as Ruth knew Harry wasn't about to sell any more secrets to foreign intelligence – she didn't know if she could talk about work. She still felt incredibly guilty for being there, when he couldn't be. But, she reminded herself, she had decided not to do that anymore. No more guilt for things she could not change. It was part of the plan.

After a moment of silence, Harry seemed to sense her dilemma.

"I'm not looking for details," he assured her. "I understand what HR will have instructed you to do and I don't want to put you in an awkward position." He gave a little half-smile – perhaps at the irony of that statement. "I just wanted generalisations – how Dimitri and Tairq are, whether you've got your new analysts yet, if you managed to sort that issue with the Underground network..."

Ruth nodded. She could do generalisations.

"It's all ticking over, as usual," she answered. "Dimitri and Tariq are well. Erin hired some new analysts last week. The younger of the two needs some more training but the older one is fitting in perfectly." She paused, scanning her brain for other news she could tell him without having to cut herself of half-way through, because of the Official Secrets Act. "Not much else is happening. Tariq is trying to requisition some new software from Six, to help with whole-body analysis, from CCTV cameras. Oh, and yes," she gave him a little smile, "we did sort out the problem with the Underground network. Although I probably shouldn't tell you how."

He shot her a wry grin.

"I know you won't believe me," he told her, "but I don't think I want to know. From what I heard, on the outside, it sounded like a bloody mess."

Ruth laughed, at his words, but Harry had been right – she didn't believe him. She could see, in his eyes, that he wanted to know every little detail about what had gone down during the Tube network hacking scandal, two weeks previous. Section D was his department. The team were his people. It was homesickness, she reasoned, watching him watch her back. Harry had more or less lived at Thames House for the last fifteen years. This was probably torture to him. Deciding to bite the bullet, Ruth plunged in and addressed the issue of the woman sitting in for him as Section Head.

"I take it you've already read up on your temporary replacement?" she asked, a little unnecessarily.

Harry nodded.

"Erin Watts. Thirty three, graduated double-first from Cambridge in International Relations and Modern Languages, a bit of a rising star – destined for upper management, within the next ten years. Smart, committed and rather beautiful, if I am not mistaken." He paused, then added, "I believe the back door Security team have a pool going, on her cup size."

"You _have_ done your homework."

"I have two and a half decades of contacts within intelligence circles and a vested interest in knowing as much as I can," Harry tilted his head. "So, how is she getting on?"

"Oh, she's efficient enough. I get the feeling she would rather be more hands-on with operations than the job allows, however, and she's not very good at delegating." Ruth gave a sigh, thinking back over the last few weeks, trying to think of ways to say things which would make Harry worry less. "I believe she caused a bit of friction in the team, at first," she admitted, eventually, "but it seems to have smoothed over. She brought a new officer along with her, too, from Section A. He's very useful. A lot of field work backed up by some rather useful technical skills. Mind-numbingly sarcastic, but we've dealt with worse." The thought of Ros momentarily brought a small smile to Ruth's lips. Some days she missed her old, caustic Section Chief – she hadn't expected to, but she did. "The DG is keeping an eye on the situation," she continued, after a second's pause, "and Towers is shoving his oar in a little more than usual. I think he's doing his best to keep things as you left them, just in case."

Harry gave a soft noise of approval.

"It's all going not badly, considering," she summed up, looking back over at him.

A long moment passed.

"Well," Harry sighed. "I suppose the silver lining to all of this is that my handover manual is finally getting some use."

Ruth eyed him, wondering whether or not to say that the handover manual had been the bane of Erin's life; a constantly consulted but much maligned piece of instructional spook literature.

"I suppose so," she eventually answered.

There was a short silence then he asked, a little tentatively, "she's not changed my office, has she?"

Ruth gave a little chuckle.

"No. I think the whiskey decanter was put away, within the first day, but the wall is as red as ever." She gave a slight pause then, giving a little frown, asked, "Incidentally, Harry, I've always wondered... why is that wall red?"

Her ex-boss pulled a slightly disgruntled face.

"Oh, management told me I had to 'update my team's working environment', sometime in the late nineties." He gave a little roll of his eyes. "I was trying make a point and show them that I had more important things to do with my time than interior decorating. So, I picked the first brash colour I came to in the paint booklet and told the painters to go at it. I figured that, after they had seen the error of their ways, HR would eventually come and fix it," he frowned, "but they never did."

Ruth laughed again. "Touche, HR."

"Indeed."

Harry leant back against the bench.

Ruth watched him, quietly.

It was odd, she thought, this situation they had found themselves in. Here they were, one month after he had thrown away his career and risked his freedom for her, laughing together. The Service had thrown him out into the cold. Men who would have professed to be friends had turned their backs on him. The vultures had circled and the jackals had snapped, but Harry was still okay – pride probably a little wounded, but okay – and not looking so terribly sorry for what he had done.

That had been her biggest fear, she realised, now. She had been terrified that she would come face to face with him again and see regret in his eyes. She did not want to be the one he resented, for ending his career, for sullying his name. But there was no resentment in his eyes. Only love... and a little bit of reproach.

"You know, you really shouldn't be here," he cautioned. "If my detail catches onto their scheduling problem and they find the pair of us, boss won't be pleased."

Ruth watched him, marvelling at how strange it was, him referring to someone else as her boss. For the past seven years, had always been that to her.

"I can deal with her displeasure," she told him, eventually.

"You don't think fraternising with disgraced, rogue ex-officers might come up at your next pay review?"

Ruth considered him for a moment, then answered, "I think, until experienced analysts fluent in Russian, Mandarin and Arabic grow on trees, my job is secure enough."

"We get multilingual applications every day."

"Hence, the key word in that last sentence is 'experienced'. Being able to recognise the phrase 'thermobaric bomb' in seven languages is not quite equivalent to fluently speaking five, being able to handle multiple system cross-referencing systems and liaise with countless intelligence agencies."

Harry chuckled. "You forget to mention your modesty."

"I'm starting to feel modesty is a little counterproductive, actually, in our line of work," Ruth admitted. "It only seems to end in me being overlooked, in some way." She folded her hands in her lap. "I've decided to blow my own horn every now and then – see what happens. It's probably just the after effects of a near-death experience, but we'll see how it goes."

Harry watched her fondly, eyes warmer than he would have dared, two months ago.

"Good for you," he told her quietly.

Ruth had to concentrate hard on not blushing.

They sat and watched each other for half a minute or so, taking in the soft ambient noises of the air around them – the park and those enjoying it, on the early autumn afternoon – then Ruth felt the need to move the conversation on to the crux of the matter. She had not come here, today, to talk about how she was getting on at work, or argue about Albany. She had come here to talk about what she had discovered in its wake. Over the past month, some things had become suddenly very clear to her. She wanted Harry to know that. She wanted him to know that they were okay and that they had a future, with each other in it, if he was still interested.

"I never thanked you," she started softly, turning her face back towards him, "for what you did for me, that day."

The fondness in her once-boss's eyes faded slightly, into unease.

"Ruth, you don't have to say anything..."

"I do." She shifted, turning further towards him. There was inherent intimacy in this moment and, for the first time in a long time, she did not want to shy away from that. Quite the opposite, in fact. "I want to say thank you," she told him, softly.

Harry scanned her from a few feet away in that piercing way he had, eyes deep, thoughts unreadable. Eventually, he gave a soft exhale and spoke.

"Ruth, I would do it again, a hundred times over."

"I know." She gave an awkward little smile. "When we last talked..." she trailed off, gave a little sigh, then forced herself to start over again, despite the years of habit telling her to shut up and run. "I was scared and angry, before," she forced out. "I couldn't understand why you'd done what you did and I automatically assumed that our personal relationship was what had forced your hand. But I think, maybe, it wasn't about us at all – looking back, I think it was your principles and integrity John Bateman was using against you. I was just a tool."

Across from her, Harry nodded very slowly.

"You would have rescued every one of us, in that situation, wouldn't you?" she asked.

He nodded again, then quietly added, "Bateman knew that I would make the decision more quickly, however, if he took you."

Ruth swallowed, shifting her knee a little closer to his across the bench.

"I'm sorry for what I said to you, afterwards. It was an unnecessarily combative."

"And as good as forgotten," Harry assured her, with calm sincerity in his eyes.

Ruth nodded, but reminded herself that people like them never truly forget. Harry would always remember what she had spat at him, furious because he had once more placed her on a pedestal she did not feel she belonged on – furious because she had only just stopped feeling guilty for all of the other things she had survived and others hadn't. She had told him that his love wasn't fair. It had been cruel and he would remember it for a very long time. The only thing she could do to soften the blow now was to reiterate why she had said it.

"I was angry," she repeated, holding his gaze steadily, "but even then, I was still grateful. You came through for me. Whatever the circumstances, you saved my life and I was grateful. I _am_ grateful," she corrected.

A sad little smile crossed Harry's face.

"I know, Ruth."

Ruth breathed slowly out, still looking down. They spent their lives together knowing but not acting on it. Well, she thought, with a leap of nerves, that was going to change. She had decided that was going to change while she had been sitting in John Bateman's makeshift safehouse, waiting to see her and Albany's fates determined. As the man she had once known and trusted as Lucas North had slid a needle into her arm, she had sworn to herself that, if she lived through this, she was not going to sit and wait for any longer. She was going to make a life. She was going to do things she had always wanted to do. She was going to find a place in the country, like she had always wanted. She was going to pursue opportunities at work without worrying about them taking her away from her comfort one. She would make more time for herself, indulge in her hobbies, make a life – and make room in that life for Harry.

She would make a life with enough room for two. Then she would let him in and let them teach each other how to be happy, in whatever limited way people like them ever could be. It was not a case of pretending to be anyone else – she understood that now – and it didn't matter that other people would not understand what they had done and seen together. That they understood, that they were honest and knew each other; that was all that mattered.

Years ago, Harry had told her to be brave and to seize redemption wherever she could. Just a month ago, John Bateman had told her the same thing. Be brave. It was not going to be easy, but Ruth knew, now, that it was necessary. She did not want to be alone any longer. She wanted more. She wanted a life. She wanted them, in whatever form they took. It didn't have to be perfect, she realised – it never was going to be perfect, as they were both so damaged by their pasts, together and apart – but it was them. Perfect or not, she wanted that. She was so sick of being alone.

Across the bench, Harry watched her, blissfully unaware of the nature of her thoughts. Ruth had to bite her tongue to stop herself from spilling them forth. Though she very much wanted to, she knew they couldn't be together right away. The nature of their situation meant that they needed to keep a distance from each other, for the moment. She had reasoned that it was too much for them to change everything in their lives all at once. At the moment, Harry needed to get used to being a retired MI5 officer. He needed to come to terms with losing his career and the man he had been, before they could move forwards. If they moved before that, he might wake up in six months, or a year, and resent her for being the catalyst to his fall from grace. And Ruth knew she couldn't survive having him only to lose him again.

Turning her eyes to where his hand lay, on the back of the bench, between them, she contemplated her next move. What she wanted to do was reach out and touch him. Or kiss him. What she knew she _needed_ to do, however, was round this up and get on her way. Harry had been right earlier, when he had told her that they couldn't be discovered together. The longer she stayed, the more likely it would be that Harry's security detail figured out what had gone on and came to find him. And she couldn't be there when that happened. Harry needed all the good behaviour he could chalk up, if he were going to survive this tribunal as a free man.

"It was good to see you," she sighed, watching his fingers lingering only a foot or so away, wondering if it would be acceptable to reach out and touch them, "but I probably should go. Just in case."

Harry nodded.

"Of course," he agreed, though his eyes looked a little disappointed by the prospect. "You're right."

A moment passed and neither moved, however.

Ruth did not want to go. She could tell that her companion wasn't keen on it either.

"Out of curiosity," he asked, after the moment stretched on into a minute and she still had not made to stand, "how long do I have until tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee realise I'm unsupervised?"

"Around four hours." Ruth told him, picking out the soft wrinkles across his brow, watching the way his hair was slightly ruffled by the breeze. He hadn't had it cut in a while, she noted. It was longer than she had ever seen him wear it, at work. Like the casual clothing, it was strange but not unpleasant. She liked casual Harry. "If there's anything errands you want to run, or anything want to do without their scrutiny, then you should probably do it soon."

Harry's eyes darkened, slightly, and Ruth got the impression that there were quite a few things he would like to do without scrutiny. The immediacy of the look made her shiver. It made her feel both pleased and nervous because, for the first time, their want actually stood a possibility of being fulfilled sometime soon. Soon, though, she reminded herself, not now. She would stick to her plan. She would make a life and make space in it for Harry, but not rush in. It was the only way to give them a real chance of surviving this. They needed firm foundations.

She cleared her throat softly.

Beside her, Harry was silent, eyes focussed near her face, clearly still pondering what they would feel like, skin on skin. (Whatever else he was, Harry was still a man, and Ruth had been around enough of them to know what that slightly glazed, slightly hungry expression meant. She did not consider it a bad thing, when it passed over his face, just occasionally. In fact, she was incredibly glad that, after all this time and all their history, he still hungered for the physical reality as well as the idea of them).

"Is there anything you need me to do?" she asked, breaking the moment before either of them lost sight of their current priorities. "I can get messages to the team and most of your Grade 6 classified contacts, without arousing much suspicion. Anyone higher, or in foreign intelligence might be difficult, though."

Harry glanced guiltily up.

"I'm sorry, I completely missed the last part of that. Foreign intelligence what?"

"Contacts," Ruth repeated, feeling a little thrill of pleasure at his distraction. "I was asking if you wanted me to pass on any messages to anyone."

"Oh," he frowned. "Yes. I sent an encrypted file to Dimitri, a couple of weeks ago, to hold onto. If he could wait until the twelfth and then pass it on to the contact on the last page, that would be helpful."

Ruth nodded.

"Anything else?"

"Tell Tariq to cut his damned hair," her ex-boss grumbled, sounding more like his normal self.

She chuckled out loud. The hair had always been a bone of contention. However often the young man seemed to have it trimmed, it was shaggy no more than a week later. Harry, who seemed to take scruffiness as a personal offence, could often be heard reprimanding the young officer for it. That and his lax approach to formal attire.

"I'll tell him," Ruth assured him. "Top priority."

"Good."

Another moment passed in silence, a dog barking a couple of hundred metres away, a couple of children arguing down by the water – the afternoon continuing around them. With the sun pouring down and the half-shelter of the hillock behind them, it was almost warm. If she closed her eyes, Ruth could almost imagine it was still summer. She had missed most of the year's more pleasant weather, she thought; first, caught up in the angst of losing Ros and Harry's proposal, then in the intensity of what had happened with Albany. Last summer, she had taken a few days off, gone south and fallen asleep on a beach reading her book, got hilariously sunburnt and drank too much wine with a friend from her singing group who happened to be holidaying in the same area. Maybe she would manage to do something like that again, next summer. Maybe Harry could come along.

Sighing, Ruth turned in her seat and sat a little further forward, preparing herself to stand. Harry, ever the gentleman, moved with her and Ruth did not object. Their standing brought them slightly closer together and it was nice to look up into his eyes again. It was their usual stance and she found it comforting.

"Thanks for coming," Harry told her, softly.

"You're welcome." Ruth straightened her coat, which had wrinkled during her time sitting down. "When are they bringing you in, for the inquiry?"

Harry shuffled his feet.

"Two weeks' time for the preliminary discussion. Then the verdict, a week after that. I'm sure you will happen to glance at the dates, somehow, if no one tells you first. They'll be on the network."

Ruth nodded. She would.

"I'll be there," she assured him.

At her words, Harry watched her very intently for a moment, then took a step forwards, bringing them a little closer together. There was a loaded moment, as they came to within a foot of each other. Ruth felt her own eyes dart to his lips and felt Harry's do the same, on her. After a split second, however, his need to express whatever grievance he had overrode the impulse and he focussed once more on her eyes.

"Ruth," he started, a little cautiously. "You don't have to come. It's going to be incredibly..."

"...awkward?"

He gave a little nod. "They are going to pick me apart. Me and everyone who has had the misfortune to be linked to me."

Ruth sighed. She knew what it was going to be like. She knew that the enquiry had been set to prove that Harry had lost his judgement, that he had emotionally compromised himself, made bad field decisions and sold out his country to a foreign intelligence agency. They were going to paint him as a burn out and a traitor. They were going to paint her as his ruin. And they were going to go over every inch of Harry's history with the service with a fine toothcomb; the good, the bad and the very, very ugly, it would all be out on display. Ruth was not surprised that Harry wasn't sure he wanted her there. It was one thing to for her to know he had done bad things, after all, but quite another for her to have to hear them recounted in detail. He was scared, she realised. He was scared she was going to see all of him and back away.

"I'm sorry if you feel uncomfortable about it," she told him, slowly, "but I'd like to be there, if you'll let me."

"Why?" Harry asked, eyes flickering between her own. "If I had the choice, I wouldn't."

Why indeed.

Regarding him for a moment, Ruth decided that the most beautiful thing about him was this look of suspended disbelief – this way his eyes got, when he already knew the answer but was hiding it from himself. She had seen it only half a dozen times, but it was a mixture of all the parts she liked best about him. A little love, a little hope.

"You know why, Harry," she told him, softly – a little awkwardly. "You've known why for years."

His throat bobbed slightly, in a swallow.

Ruth watched him struggle through the English language for a suitable word then, failing to do so, continue to watch her, silently.

A sudden impulse crossed her mind, too much to resist. Reaching out, she slipped her hand into his, feeling a rush of nerves and pleasure as his fingers gently curled into her in response.

"I'll be there," she told him, squeezing gently.

Harry nodded, minutely.

"Thank you." They stood a while longer, then he started, "Ruth, once all of this is over-,"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Ruth cut in, rubbing her thumb over his index finger, feeling her stomach flip nervously within her at the contact. Warm fingers. Harry's fingers. On hers. "Just concentrate on the tribunal, for now." Her eyes lifted to his again and she tried to convey, by telepathy, that he was going to be okay. That, even if they threw him out into the cold, he was not going to be alone in this, anymore – not if he didn't want to be. He had her. "I'll still be here afterwards," she told him gently.

Harry nodded.

A moment passed.

"Well," he cleared his throat. "I supposed you'd better get on then," he moved his eyes off, indicating the path that she had come down, "before anyone starts to suspect we know each other."

Ruth laughed, slightly.

"Okay."

Giving his hand one last squeeze, she leant forwards and pressed a kiss against his cheek. It was an impulsive move and it seemed to catch both of them off-guard.

Around them, time seemed to hesitate, caught – just as they were – in the intensity of the situation. Their eyes held fast; his hopeful and asking, hers showing god knew what. Inches away, Ruth knew she should pull fully back from him and leave but she just couldn't manage. It was like they were held their by magnetism. They were so close and she wanted this so much and she knew that Harry did too. Waiting to tell him that she wanted a life together made sense, but this was just a small token of comfort. A kiss could not hurt, could it? In case something dreadful happened, to either of them, she didn't want their only kiss to have been a goodbye.

Turning, ever so slightly, she leant back in and touched their lips together. It was barely more than a brush, at first, but Harry quickly capitulated, warm, soft lips pressing back against hers. They held together for just a second or two then parted, their breaths shallower, quicker than they were before. Ruth's gaze hung onto Harry's. Harry's hung onto Ruth's. As the moment stretched on and she started to feel just a little bit awkward, she started to say something, but at that moment his hand rose up and brushed against her cheek, sending all the thoughts spilling away.

Leaning in, he turned his face to kiss her again. Beautiful, soft, incredibly heated.

Throwing caution aside, for just a minute, Ruth allowed the desire which was simmering between them to catch flame. She leant forwards, pressing up into him as his hand slipped around to cup her jaw, bringing their faces together properly. These were no glancing kisses, not little brushing glances, easily misread. These were real. This was passion. Ruth closed her eyes as he met her, letting herself be carried away, just for a minute. He felt wonderful, with his cheek was warm against her. He tasted very slightly sweet. Quite surprisingly, it did not feel awkward or strange, to be doing this after so many years of holding apart. Instead, it felt natural. It felt like belonging, to have his tongue brushing against hers, to have him push hungrily forwards, fingers sliding into her hair. It felt like home.

They kissed for just half a minute or so – a short interlude, in the long drawn-out saga of their love, but incredibly tender – then Ruth squeezed Harry's hand and pulled back, moving off her toes. Across from her, Harry stayed exactly where he had been, hand falling back to his side. His eyes were full of delight and what looked like overwhelming confusion. Ruth more than understood why. For so long, contact between them had been strictly rationed. Emotion of any kind had been strictly rationed. What she had done was take a huge step in a new direction. But it was a necessary step, she told herself. She wanted him to know that there was a future for them, should he want it. Whether or not he came back to work for MI5 – and his return would make her plan more difficult, but she would try and make it work – she wanted to give them a chance. She did not want either of them to end up like John Bateman, consumed by their own pasts and the sorrows within them. She did not want either of them to die alone.

Squeezing Harry's hand one last time, Ruth let go and stepped back.

"I'll see you at the tribunal," she murmured. "We'll talk, afterwards."

Harry nodded, still looking confused but also suddenly hopeful.

"I'll see you there," he managed, eventually.

With incredible self restraint, she stepped away from him and turned, heading down the gravel path the way she had come. As she reached the part to turn up to the gates, she chanced a glance back and found Harry standing with his hands in his pockets, watching her. Her belly jumped with excitement. This was going to happen. They were going to happen. She just had to stick to her plan and be brave. The next month would be difficult. The tribunal would be awful. But, afterwards, they could start to work things out.

She smiled to herself as she faced forwards again, the sun beating down on her from above. She was going to make a life for them. Things were going to work out.

.


	12. Chapter 12

_Set season 10, near the end of episode 5_

_A/N – Just a little warning, this chapter is M RATED. Not quite worth changing the rating of the entire fic, but definitely more mature than the rest. So take note, if that's not your thing. Also, as this is the penultimate chapter, I'm going to have to decide what to do with the last. Happy ending? Canon ending? Something in between? If anyone has an opinion, now would be the time to share it. Hope you have enjoyed so far and thank so all so very much for your kind comments and reviews. All my best,_

_-Silver._

_._

_Chapter 12_

.

Four weeks – it shouldn't have been long enough for them to get into the state they had, and yet it was. Over this last month, Ruth had been to hell and back. She had become embroiled in stopping a conspiracy to break down a peace deal between the United Kingdom and Russia. She had lost a friend, in young Tariq Masood, received and accepted a job offer from the Home Secretary, watched Harry's tear himself to pieces over his history with Elena Gavrik, implicated a Director of the CIA in an attempted assassination and capitulated in several other acts that she was not proud of.

Everything she had sworn to herself that she was going to do had been tested to the limit. The plan which she had formed for her and Harry's future, in the aftermath of Albany, had become stretched and tenuous. Ruth had become stretched and tenuous. Never in her life had she felt jealousy like this. Never she had felt so utterly betrayed. Watching Harry talk to Elena, finding out what he had done in his past, was like glimpsing another man altogether – a man who was a complete stranger to her. She had thought she knew him. She had been so completely sure. The revelation that he had a son, who he had never told her about, threw her the most. How could he have kept that a secret from her? How could all this be happening?

Yesterday had been a particular shock to the system.

First, there had been her meeting with Harry, in the high rise car park. For just a few minutes, made everything seem clear again. Guilt and love; his explanation of how they could be so easily mistaken rang true for her, because of her experience with George and Nico, in the past. As Harry had talked her through his emotions, on the matter of Elena and Sasha Gavrik, she had felt like she was being let in on what he was feeling for the first time in weeks. He was not in love with Elena. He was still the man she thought he was, though the secrets ran deep and deeper within him. He was going to resign his commission, once this was all over.

Her relief that Harry was finally sharing, however, had been countered by what he had asked her to do next. Going behind the Home Secretary's back, stealing US government property from the American embassy. Ruth had done it, of course – Harry had asked her to, how could she not have done it – but it had left a sick feeling in her stomach. And, in the end, it had all been in vain. All of her moral questioning and doubts had led to nothing because laptop had been stolen anyway, by none other than Sasha Gavrik, hiding in the back of her car.

And, just to top it off, as Ruth sat in the car afterwards trying to gather her senses, her phone had rung and her PA had relayed what was happening at the Home Office. Mercenaries and an attempted assassination of the Home Secretary; Harry on the line, with the Americans, for what had happened to Jim Coaver. Her world was crumbling down.

As she crawled back to her empty townhouse, that evening, it was with num resignation. Whomever wanted the Russian deal to fail was two steps ahead of them, all the time. It was as if they knew exactly what was going on in the board room and were exacting attacks to stall/fracture it. Her own position was going to become precarious, should Towers get proof of who had stolen the laptop (and he wasn't a stupid man, he knew she had been involved). And, to top it all off, before she had left that evening she had overheard snatches of a rather dour conversation, between Towers and the American ambassador. Something about a maverick at Five. Harry's job did not sound quite as secure as it had, just hours before. The government was going to roll. Ruth just knew it. He was going to be handed over, to the wolves.

Walking into her house, she switched on the lights and set her bag listlessly on the counter. She walked over to the kettle and flicked it on, despite not feeling like a drink, despite not feeling like doing anything but sitting in the corner and crying. Everything had been looking so hopeful. She had had a plan. She had done everything she could to stick to the plan, in spite of what was happening around her. She had pursued opportunities at work. She had accepted a promotion and she was working on the house and the life outside of MI5. She had found a beautiful little cottage, by the coast, and had even put in an offer (just a week ago, as an act of defiance against Tariq's death and the worsening situation with Harry). She had made all the changes she had planned on making, but...

But, once again, she was failing on one front. If there was room in her world for Harry, right now, neither of them could find it. It was just so difficult. Up until a week ago, she had been still completely sure that the plan would pull them through. Once the Gavriks were gone, she told herself, things would be clearer. But they weren't going anywhere and things remained as murky as ever. And the secrets kept coming – thick and fast and dark and dirty. She was boiling with jealousy and confusion and Harry was killing himself, over his own guilt. It was just too much. Ruth wanted so much to get through this but, on nights like this, she just wasn't sure a plan was going to be enough to do that anymore.

.

She had only stood in the kitchen for a minute or so before there was a knock on her front door. The sound startled her at first but logic told her it could only be one person. After what had happened today, after the unresolved tension in the air between them, it had to be Harry. And if it wasn't, she told herself, as she wearily walked towards the front of her house, then all hope of salvaging them was lost. He needed to be here, tonight. They needed to talk – probably more than they ever had, before. Their current situation was not discomfort born of misunderstanding, or of grief, but something far darker and more dangerous. This was them having to face up to what each other truly were. This was exposure to all the secrets and the lies. This was fracture point, if they let it be.

She answered the door still wearing her coat and boots.

Harry, standing on the doorstep, did not comment. His cheeks were pink with cold. Obviously, he had been waiting outside for her to come home for quite some time.

For a while, neither of them said anything, then Harry gave a small sigh and asked, plaintively, "can I come in?"

Ruth nodded listlessly and stepped aside, allowing him past her and into the warmth of the house. As he stepped in, the cold of the October night stepped in with him. Coupled with the look that had been lingering in Harry's eyes, Ruth felt a shiver of trepidation pass through her body because of it. Whatever he had come to tell her, it wasn't anything good. Something bad was going to happen. Although, she cynically told herself, how much worse could their situation get? What more could there possibly be to go wrong?

Harry had the answer to that when she arrived in the kitchen. Standing near the worktop, he had laid the black duffel bag he had been carrying down on the surface and placed one hand protectively over it.

"I need to give you something," he told her.

Ruth eyed the bag nervously. "What?"

His eyes remained strangely devoid of any emotion.

What new horrific secret was this, Ruth wondered. Was it something from his past, in Berlin? Was it something to do with Elena that he had not told her about? She believed what he had said earlier. She believed that he was not in love with his former asset. But love was not the only emotion to move a man recklessly. Guilt could be equally powerful. She knew that.

"What is in there?" she asked, her voice cool with nerves.

"Some things that can't fall into untrustworthy hands," Harry answered, gloved hand tightening slightly on the bag's shoulder strap.

Ruth frowned. "I don't understand."

"I need you to hold onto them for a while, while I'm not able to."

Her eyes flicked quickly over his face. What was this?

"Harry I have no idea what you're talking about," she eventually muttered, moving forwards into the room and heading over to the kettle. "Do you want a cup of tea, while you continue to talk in riddles, or would you rather something stronger?"

As she passed him, moving fast with her unease, he reached out and took her arm in his hand, stilling her movement.

"Ruth, stop for a minute... listen to me."

She turned, looking up.

Listen to him? She had spent the last few weeks trying to listen to him – trying to find some secret message of love underneath all the guilt and the erratic behaviour. Guilt could rip him apart in ways that love never could and she just couldn't get through to him. They were drifting apart, on their rafts of secrets, and the storm was building. Her plan wasn't enough to survive this...

Harry was persevering at the moment, however. His fingers tightened on her wrist until she met his eyes. He held his silence until she stopped pulling away from him.

"I'm listening," she sighed, eventually relenting. "Harry, you've got me. I'm listening."

The resignation in her voice must have struck some chord in him because, for the first time in weeks, she saw the Harry she knew shining through his guilt-struck eyes. Softness. Just a bit of warmth.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said softly, gently releasing his iron-tight grasp on her.

Ruth frowned.

"What?"

"There was..." Harry began, but trailed off, clearing his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

Ruth felt a thrill of terror fly through her. Forget all the anger over what had happened – now, there was fear in Harry's eyes. What had happened to bring it there? What was so terrible he could not tell her? After all they had seen and been through and knew about each other, what was so terrible? Or was this something much more real than a secret from his past? Was this something to do with work? Were they or the team in some sort of danger? Had someone died? _Calum, Dimitri, Erin...?_

"What's wrong?" she asked, moving a little closer as he let go of her wrist, taking up position against the kitchen counter next to him and the bag. It was closer than they had been in weeks. It was so much further then where she wanted them to be. "...Harry?"

Harry blinked. His lips parted slightly and that look of quiet desperation had swept back over his face.

"Harry?" she asked again, a little more forcefully.

"I got a phone call, earlier," he finally managed, clearing his throat and looking down at his feet. Stalling, Ruth thought, her eyes widening slightly. "From William Towers."

"About?" Her stomach turned with sudden nausea. Just before she had left work, this evening, she had overheard Towers talking to the US Ambassador. She had thought it earlier – she had feared it earlier – but what she had feared could not be happening so soon, surely? Surely they could not possibly move on Harry so soon? "Is this about Coaver?" she asked, her throat suddenly dry and her voice rough because of it. "Is it the Americans?"

Harry nodded.

"Harry..." Ruth breathed out, one hand lifting to her mouth, quite independent of her wishes for it to stay still. The Home Secretary would not be moving so soon if all they wanted to do was suspend him. There would have to be a hearing first. So this was more than suspension... No, she pleaded, wordlessly. Don't say it. I don't want to hear it. "What's going to happen?" she whispered.

"The Home Secretary has signed an extradition order," Harry stated, watching her with endlessly darkened eyes. "They're handing me over tomorrow."

Ruth stood, rooted to the spot. Her body felt like it had actually frozen in place. Her muscles were rigid and slightly trembling. Her stomach felt like lead. She felt sick. She felt completely exposed and terribly afraid. The world around her suddenly felt huge and cold. They were going to take Harry. They were going to take him away from her, far away, possibly forever. She might never see him again. This might be it.

"No, they can't," she whispered, urgently. "Not so soon, Harry, they can't..."

"Towers is not supposed to officially tell me about it, until tomorrow morning, but the Americans were going to be monitoring my calls from nine o' clock tonight so he thought he'd catch me beforehand." Harry gave a visible swallow. "It was actually rather sporting of him."

"This is all too fast..." Ruth whispered, lowering the hand that lay over her mouth, slightly. "Harry, they can't just take you."

"Technically, they can." He gave a horrible parody of a smile. "I am responsible for the death of a CIA director."

"What happened to Coaver was not your fault!" she exclaimed.

Over the last day, she had been tossing it all over in her mind, wondering if things had played out slightly differently what would have happened – if Coaver would have lived and they had figured out what was going on together. She had thrown it all madly around her head, hoping that it would suddenly start making sense but, until she had said it out loud, it had remained a mess. Now, it was so obvious. Harry had been misguided, but Coaver's death was not his fault. That was on the men who had thrown the American from the back of a moving van. Harry was not to blame. How could they take him away? How could they do this?

"Towers can't just sign you over," she muttered, "he can't. You're his head of Counterterrorism, Harry. What are we supposed to do without you..?"

The moment shifted and blurred on front of her. It was not until Ruth felt the heat of the tears on her cheeks, however, that she realised she was crying.

"Ruth..."

Harry stepped forwards, lifting one hand to her face. His thumb brushed her wet cheek, sliding slightly. Screwing her eyes tight, she tried to stop the tears and succeeded for a moment, then she looked up and caught his eye and they came flooding back again.

"God, I'm sorry," she apologised, through her roughening breaths. "You don't need this as well..."

Harry said nothing, just moved a little closer and reached one arm out. Tentatively, so very tentatively, he guided her to him – clearly still a little unsure if this was allowed, unsure whether she was still angry at him, perhaps. He needn't have worried, thought Ruth, letting her body fall into his. Anger had no place amidst a revelation like this. He shouldn't have kept secrets from her, he should have opened up more, but then she should have pushed the matter and not hung back out of jealousy and feeling threatened by Elena. They had both made the situation as it was. There was no anger left in her heart, towards him. He was here, now... just when they were about to take him away from her.

She leant forwards as he slipped his hand around her back, closed her eyes as his fingers splayed across her. This was the first time they had done this, she thought vaguely, as he held her gently, arms forming a protective shield against the world. This was the first time she had laid her cheek against him, or felt his heart beating. He was so warm, she thought, swallowing hard. Even through his shirt, she could feel his heat. Tears threatened again, but she managed to quell them, forcing them and the sobs back down her throat. He was here now, she told herself, breathing him in. Harry was here, fingers rubbing slow circles against her back.

One of her hands slipped up his side, gripping onto the fabric of his coat tightly. Every inch of her body was telling her to pull him closer. Perhaps it was her subconscious way of trying to erase all that was happening around them. Keep him close, then they couldn't take him. Of course, Ruth thought dryly, keeping him close would be the worst thing she could do. If Harry went missing, her house would be the very first place they looked.

God, why was it that everybody knew where they were supposed to be except for them?

With a shaky breath, she tilted her head back, resting her forehead against his chin.

Harry pressed a featherlight kiss against her hair.

They stood like that for a while, adjusting to the feel of each other as their minds adjusted to idea of what was going to happen. Cruel separation. They would be torn apart. Harry would be carted off by the Americans and Ruth knew what imprisonment their included, for a foreign intelligence officer. Harry would be questioned, tortured, perhaps worse. In their eyes, he had killed one of their own and he would be punished. Once that extradition agreement was signed, there was nothing anyone here could do to stop that. The British government would have no say over what was done, or when they got him back. This could be it, forever. She might never see him again.

Ruth gripped him tighter.

After about five minutes, Harry murmured her name softly against her head.

"I need to explain some things," he told her, sounding sorry that their contact had to end.

Ruth felt sorry too, but she still pulled back, wiping her cheeks of tears. Harry had to explain things. He had just found that his enemies were coming to take him away, possibly forever, but he was Harry Pearce and his first thought upon hearing that was not to safeguard himself, but to safeguard the secrets he protected. That was what would be in the bag. State secrets he had protected for years, details of things that he trusted to nobody else – even the system. Always the hero, she thought, wiping salt from her skin, on the back of her hand. He was always the bloody hero.

"Okay," she breathed to him, her voice still a little hoarse. "What do you need me to do?"

His eyes were unspeakably sad as they extracted themselves from around each other and stepped away. The kitchen felt cold without him against her and Ruth suspected he felt the same. After so long wanting to be wrapped in his arms, it was devastating that this was how it happened, on the eve of him being stolen away from her for good. It was the fitting end, she supposed, to their devastating story, but it felt no less horrific to live it through.

Gathering herself, Ruth managed not to start crying again, as she asked him if he wanted that cup of tea. Harry gave a small attempt at a smile, in reply. He failed dismally, but she took from it a 'yes' and moved over to boil the kettle. She made her way about the kitchen, finding cups and teabags as Harry unzipped the black duffel bag on the counter, behind her, pulling out two thick folders. He did not speak once he had laid them out, however, just stood waited until she was finished.

Eventually, returning to his side, Ruth sat down his cup on the counter and, clutching her own to her chest, cast her eyes down to the files.

"So what are they?" she asked, voice hollow. Her hands were trembling slightly, causing ripples in her tea.

Harry placed one hand on the files.

"These were removed from MI5 databases in '98. In all likelihood, they will never be needed, but I need you to read them and know them and keep them anyway. If something comes up..." he trailed off, then looked very deeply at her, "...something that pertains to the contents of the file, then you have to contact this man, on this number," he pointed to a number printed across the top of the page. "He'll know what to do."

"Who is he?" Ruth sniffed slightly, grasping her tea tighter. There was no point in asking what the file was about. She would read it later, once he was gone. She would probably cry again, just knowing that Harry had once held them.

"The contact?" Harry's lip twitched slightly, forming the shadow of a smile. "A private contractor who I use for some deniable operations. You've met before. He and Malcolm will help you, should this come to anything."

Ruth shivered.

Harry handing over his responsibilities meant that he didn't think he was coming back, from this.

"Harry, I don't know if I can do this..." she whispered, looking beseechingly up at him.

"I need you to." He answered, simply, with that strong sincerity he always managed, even in the darkest of moments. "I'm sorry that I have to ask, Ruth, but I need you to do this for me." A moment passed. "Can you manage?"

She closed her eyes and took a moment. Then she took a shaky breath.

"What else is there?"

.

He showed her two more files and a cassette tape, which she was never to listen to, just keep and destroy once a certain person passed away. There were two pen drives, which contained compromising video footage of several high-level members of parliament – another thing that should never see the light of day, except under extraneous circumstances – three more files, half a dozen more secrets, and a list of names and locations which looked like it had been drawn up more recently than the other documents. Harry explained she needed to give the last one to Calum Reid, who would be taking on an abridged selection of his assets. The rest, Harry said quietly, would end their service with him.

Ruth broke down again, at that, and – despite apologising profusely and insisting she was fine – Harry moved to stand closer, for comfort. Side to side, they stood at the counter as he pulled the last item from the black duffel bag. A bottle of white wine. _Their_ bottle of white wine.

Ruth gave a short laugh, through her tears, surprising herself because mirth was the very last thing she felt inside.

"I didn't want anyone else getting their hands on it, when they search my house," Harry explained, softly.

Turning, he slid it across to her and kept his hand there, beside it, until she reached out and touched him. As her index finger slipped beneath his, he gave a slightly unsteady sigh. Ruth looked up. He wasn't crying, but he had that empty look in his eyes, which was somehow worse.

"Thank you," she told him, sincerely.

"It was always meant for you," he murmured, eyes cast down at the bottle and the note she had inscribed, which he had kept tied around the top. "I'm sorry we never got to share it."

"It's okay."

The kitchen went very silent for a minute. All Ruth could hear was the distant dripping of her hot water tank, in the upstairs level. Outside, the world was silent. It was late at night, nobody else was awake on her street. The distant buzz of the city was muffled by the thick walls. Everything was silent. Harry was here. But he would be gone soon.

Closing her eyes, she tightened her finger around his slightly.

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

He looked down as she opened her eyes, his own suddenly overbright and full of overwhelming frustration.

"Ruth..." he sighed, turning so that they were facing one another fully. "Why did you have to say that?"

Ruth breathed out heavily.

"It's how I feel."

"But I have to leave," he whispered, voice reproachful. "You can't chose to say it now, after all this time – it's not fair!"

A tiny smile lifted Ruth's lips, at the gentle irony.

"It's never fair," she told him softly, "but I wanted you to know."

A long moment passed.

His eyes darted between her own, softening slightly.

"Ruth..." he whispered, looking so incredibly lost, "I realise I've been useless, at all of this, but I do _know_."

"I know you do." She gripped his finger a little tighter, its warmth a single point of comfort. "But," she told him, taking a steadying breath and forcing her voice to sound strong, "I also know that, whatever you feel right now, you'll want to have heard it later." She spoke from experience. "You'll want to be sure."

For a few long seconds, Harry stared at her, then he gave a tiny nod; the tension in his shoulders slipping away, the sadness in his eyes complete.

Slipping his hand a little further over hers, he let their fingers curl around one another, seeking warmth, seeking comfort.

A minute passed in absolute silence.

"This feels awful," he whispered, softly.

Ruth gave a twisted little smile.

"I know."

.

She wasn't sure how long they stood there, fingers wrapped around each other's. It could have been minutes or hours. It could have been days, but for the fact that the sky outside the window remained dark and they remained together – and in a days' time, she knew they would not be that. Holding on tight to Harry's hand, Ruth wondered how it had come to this. She had had a plan. She had been braver. By all the rules of the universe, she and Harry had had enough bad luck. It had been their time for a little happiness. The plan should have worked. They should not be standing here, waiting to be torn apart. Then again, she thought, with a bittersweet surge of love, at least they were here together. She could find a little redemption in that.

Standing close, Harry had his head turned against hers, cheek resting close to her temple. When she moved, she could feel him there. The electricity in the air between them was ever present. It was nice, so incredibly nice, she thought, not to be alone. Why couldn't they just have had a chance at this? They had been so damned close to making it. If they could just have had a little more time. They would have gotten over the business with the Russians. They would have been okay. She had a plan – she had a life almost ready for them. It would have worked out.

Leaning in a little, Harry let their shoulders brush then pulled away, straightening up from the counter.

"I should go," he told her, in an empty, somewhat lost voice. "There's a few things I need to wrap up at my house, tomorrow. Things to un-bury. Old files to burn."

"And how long does it take for you to drive home?" Ruth asked.

Harry gave an unconvincing smile.

"Not long," he admitted.

"So don't go yet."

"Ruth..."

"Stay." She squeezed his hand. It was unfair. She shouldn't ask him to stay, but she was. She was going to be unfair. She was going to be selfish and brave. Because there was no tomorrow – nothing to lose by fear. "Stay and have a drink with me."

His eyelids blinked twice, little shadows of blinks, surprise and a thousand contradicting emotions rising to the surface. He wanted to stay. He wasn't sure he could allow himself stay. She knew the turmoil that was surging through him. She had known before she had asked him but she had asked anyway. Because he was being taken away from her tomorrow. Because both of them needed this.

"Harry?" she murmured his name.

Harry swallowed, then tried to form the words that would lead him out her door. Then failed. Then nodded. "Okay," he told her quietly. "I'll stay."

They walked through to the living room. Ruth opened their bottle of wine and poured two glasses, ignoring every protest Harry made about saving it for herself. Pulling off jackets and boots and shoes, they sat on the couch, half facing each other, eyes never far from meeting.

They talked over nothing, for a while. Then they talked about the team and what he wanted for them, after he was gone. They talked about the wine and Ruth told him how it tasted exactly as it had tasted before – though the feeling in the air could not have been more different. They talked about letters he wanted her to pass on to his son and his daughter and she assured him that she would do it. She asked him if he had anything he wanted to tell the team but, after considering it for a second, Harry just shook his head and told her that they would already know how grateful he was, for all they had done. Just thank them, he told her sadly, they know the rest.

As the minutes ticked by into half an hour and they finished most of the bottle of wine, Ruth stood to take the empty glass from Harry's hand, setting it on the coffee table. She placed her own beside it, then turned, walking back over to the couch, and stood with their knees brushing together.

"Come upstairs," she asked Harry softly.

Suddenly cautious again, Harry shook his head.

"Ruth, I can't." He told her, eyes speaking of want.

"You can," she pressed, gently. "Stay with me." If this was the last time they would ever have, together. She was not going to deny them anything.

"I have to go back."

"You can't drive home. You've had two glasses of wine." And he had known that he wouldn't be able to drive home when he accepted them. That was possibly the only reason Ruth was brave enough to do this. Consciously or not, Harry had already chosen to stay. "Stay with me," she asked again, holding out her hand. "Stay with me, Harry."

He took her hand.

He played over her fingertips with his own.

He leant forwards and kissed them softly.

Then, slowly, he stood and nodded, and let her lead him to the stairs.

As their footsteps fell and the wooden floorboards creaked, underneath their combined weight, Ruth could hear nothing but the thundering of her own heartbeat. Her fingers were closed around Harry's and she was leading him through the darkness of her house to her bedroom. They did not bother to turn on the lights. It seemed somehow unnecessary. She knew the place off by heart and he trusted her implicitly. In her mind, she kept repeating her terrified mantra – that this was it, that they were finally here, but that the joy was temporary. He was to be taken away from her. Tomorrow he was going to be gone. Maybe forever. The warmth of his hand, however, was enough to keep the tears at bay. Steadying herself, Ruth tugged him after her into her room.

They weren't wearing shoes - having taken them off downstairs – so their footsteps on the hardwood floor were almost soundless. Ghosts, Ruth thought, with a tiny smile to herself in the darkness. They were ghosts. Their footsteps were too light to hear. They left no mark. Should they both die tomorrow there would probably be only four people in the world who truly knew of what they had meant to one another. The team and Malcolm. Once they were gone, she and Harry might never have existed.

Steps soundless, Ruth made her way across her bedroom, letting go of Harry to pull the curtains closed against the glow of the street lamps outside. The faint shine that came around their corners was enough to light the sharper angles of his face. The pinprick shine of his eyes followed her as she made her way back towards him. Her stomach jumped with nerves and anticipation.

This was all new. This was the last time they would ever have.

It was beginnings and endings all in one, thought Ruth, coming to a rest just in front of her companion of the last few years – wondering what was going on behind that stoic expression of his, wishing that, just once, she could know what he was thinking.

"We shouldn't happen like this," he told her softly, illuminating his thoughts almost as though he had heard her need for them. As Ruth reached up to touch his cheek, he leant into her palm but never lifted those eyes off of hers. Accepting her touch, challenging her gaze. "We shouldn't be a goodbye, Ruth," he whispered.

A little piece of her heart tore away, as he said it, but Ruth could not disagree more.

Shaking her head, she stood up on her toes – their height difference exaggerated now that she was out of her heels. She pressed her lips against his cheek, then withdrew slightly, so that their faces were just a few centimetres away. She could feel the warmth of his skin radiating into hers. She could feel the pulse of his heart in his neck, as she slipped her hand there, then around to the soft edge of his hairline. Fingers sliding into his hair, she smiled slightly. Sadly.

"Can you think of a better way, to say goodbye?" she asked.

He watched her.

He couldn't think of one. She knew that.

Her fingers stroked through soft, half formed waves. He used to have it cut so short, she mused, sliding her fingers against him. Back then, she had dreamt of running her hands over that head. Now, she was happy that Harry was exactly the man he was – the good changes, the bad, and all of the others that she did not yet know about. All of the silly things she had been so worried about, over the past few weeks, no longer seemed to matter. Yes, Harry had done terrible things. Yes, Harry had secrets. He had hundreds of thousands of secrets, in fact, he was practically _made_ of secrets was her Harry. But he was hers. She had fallen in love with the man the secrets and the spies had made. She had fallen in love with all of him. And, besides, she was made of secrets too.

Lowering her hand, she pulled the top button free of his shirt, then the second. He exhaled heavily against her hair, cheekbone pressing into her temple as she lowered her gaze to follow her fingers. Another button, then another. She placed her hand against the fabric of the vest he wore underneath and felt his heart beating fast, for a moment. This might be the last time she would ever touch him. This might be the last time she would ever see him.

Overwhelming sadness shot through her, at that thought, so she buried it by tilting her head back and capturing his lips. They kissed, slowly at first, then harder. It seemed like some barrier had been breached, by their lips' initial contact, and Harry finally allowed his hands to rise and seek her out. One to the back of her neck, cradling her head to him, the other to gently touch her waist, one thumb pressing into the soft side of her belly.

It was the first time he had touched her there. It was the first time they had kissed like this too, Ruth thought, as lips parted just enough for the tips of their tongues to brush. Had they met twenty years ago perhaps things would probably have happened differently. They would probably have fallen into bed sooner. They would have been stronger and little more beautiful. They might have been moved faster and been more confident, but she doubted – oh, she doubted with every inch of her imperfect body and soul – that they would feel half as good as they did now. She and Harry had known each other for such a long time. They knew and they trusted one another. That was what made this feel so wonderful.

Pulling the rest of Harry's shirt free, she tugged him backwards, towards the bed. He acted every bit the gentleman, letting her make the first moves, waiting for her to place his hands on her sides, asking permission with his eyes each time he pulled another layer free from her skin. Their slow game continued until she was standing in just her skirt and a dark lace bra. Then, he stepped back from her, pulling free his unbuckled belt free from his trousers. Dropping it to the floor, he moved past her and sat down on the edge of the mattress, hands falling to his knees, presumably in an attempt at restraint.

Ruth watched him intently.

"You're sure you want this?" Harry eventually asked, looking up at her.

Pacing silently over, she reached out and touched his bare shoulder, fingers seeking out the curve of a long, thin scar.

"I want this," she murmured, as she traced it down, insinuating herself a little closer.

Harry placed one hand on each side of her thighs, fingers rubbing gently, eyes slightly distant.

"Are you sure?"

He would keep asking forever if she let him, so Ruth thought it best simply to answer his words with actions.

Reaching behind herself, she unzipped the back of her skirt, then she reached down and pulled his hand up to her hip. One large thumb on the bare skin of her hip, the rest of his fingers on the thick navy fabric; it was all the incentive he needed. Hooking her skirt away from her, he slid it down, resting his palms across the outside of her thighs as they were bared to him and the room. Ruth shivered against the cold. Oddly enough, however, her usual nervous reaction to being bared held at bay. Though she had always been a shy lover, standing on front of a man who she had dreamt about for the best part of a decade, she felt only anticipation. The insecurities were still there, she knew – somewhere deep beneath the surface – but she he would be sharing them and somehow that made them much easier to deal with. Besides, it was Harry. And Ruth trusted Harry. Implicitly.

"I'm sure," she whispered, as she stepped out of her skirt. "I'm very sure."

.

Throwing the world and all the horrors it had dealt them aside, they crawled over each other and into bed. They wrapped themselves in the duvet as they kicked off the last of their clothes, exploring naked skin where they found it, kissing lips whenever there was a spare moment. Hands on skin, they discovered one another, tracing lines they had only dreamt of tracing before. Despite it being the culmination of years of want, there was nothing rushed about them. They had moved slowly for so long, after all. It made no sense to rush it, now.

Gently, so gently, they pulled themselves closer together, bare skin brushing and mouths never leaving each other's for long. They kissed again and again and again, every little taste something more to remember, every little touch something to bring him back to her. This was not about sex, Ruth thought, as her lover's fingers wound themselves into her hair. This was about love. And, thusly, it felt somehow different than any first time coupling she had experienced in the past. They knew each other. They knew each other so well. He barely made a noise as she ran her hands over him, between them, around him, but she could tell from the cadence of his breaths exactly what he was feeling – how it was all affecting him. He could barely see her, through the dark, but the tension in her body seemed to be all he needed, in turn.

She whimpered his name as he joined their bodies together. He whispered hers as her eyes fluttered closed, overcome and panting softly, and full of him. "Ruth," he murmured her name, in kisses against her cheek. "Look at me, Ruth." And she did, overriding the urge to abandon herself to sensation. Sliding her hands up against his back, she opened her eyes and found his watching her back, inches away and incredibly dark. "Let me see you," he whispered. He needed to know this was real, she read, inside his words. She more than understood. She felt it too.

Drawing her hands down his back, she nudged them further together, making sure to keep her eyes locked on his the whole time. "Okay," she whispered to him, sliding her hands back up to pull his face down to hers. "I love you, Harry," she whispered, kissing his lips, feeling his shortening breaths against her skin. This was about them. Tonight was about him and them. And love. And nothing else. "Always."

Around her, for once, the world felt very still and clear. This was what they were meant to be, she realised as he drew back and began to move gently inside of her. This was what they were meant for. Harry's eyes alive with little flickers and half closings of pleasure; hers hooked on his, fluttering open and shut in time with his movements. Underneath all of the complications they had made for themselves, they were really very simple. She was his redemption and he was hers, in the world they fought together. She had spent so many years running and chasing that she had forgotten what it felt like to just lie still, but she lay still in that moment, pressing her legs against his hips, cradling him there as his breaths and his heart beat against her.

Everything suddenly made sense.

They were so simple.

Eyes locked together, they rationed their breaths, sharing the air between them. They moved slowly – slowly, carefully, deeply – drawing out every glorious second, until they simply could not hold themselves back any longer. Then, everything began to blur into instinct. Heat and heady trickled in, filling the place of tender pleasure. Their kisses became faster and more breathless as the shaky startings of climax began to shudder, in their muscles and their blood. They panted harder, held on tighter, skin dampening with their soaring combined heat.

They were perfect. He gripped her harder. She arched up against him. They had both done this hundreds of times but this time, both could feel that it was different. In the moments between their heated kisses, in the moments their eyelids did not flutter shut in ecstasy, they could see each other's faces.

Ruth groaned as he found an angle deeper inside of her, as he slid her further down the bed and leant a little closer over her, breaths coming hard and fast against her neck as she slipped her hands up around the back of his. They were different, she whispered to herself, as her heart raced faster and her body tightened in fluttering. This was different. This was more than any of those past trysts. This was them. Finally. This was Harry, she thought, panting softly against his shoulder. Her and Harry.

Her and Harry...

...this was bliss.

He came before she did, with a muffled groan against her skin. Movements shuddering to an almost halt, they clung together for a few seconds, as the heat of his release filled her, then he pulled out and thrust back into her slowly, steadily – once, twice, five times – and, pressing up against him, she broke too. Bands of pleasure, almost too much, almost painful pleasure, then it faded back, into rolling surges of relief. Release. Heat. And his eyes when she could focus up on them.

Harry watched her the whole time, through heavy lidded eyes. Though he had been almost silent throughout his own climax, seeing hers seemed to break him all over again and her name fell from his lips, like some sort of prayer. He whispered it over and over as he leant in close, pressed it as kisses into her skin; against her cheeks and her shoulders, against her chest, over the rhythm of her thundering heart.

Everything made sense.

She was Ruth.

He was Harry.

This was what they were meant to be.

.

She came down from her high with her cheek pressed into the crook of Harry's arm. The closeness was wonderful. The back of her thigh was resting on the front of his, they were slightly sideways and more than slightly sweaty, but they were both as utterly satisfied as it was possible for two people to get. For a moment or two, as their breaths pressed their chests together and apart and their hearts raced within their chests, everything seemed completely at peace, in the world. Endorphins and adrenaline soaring, Ruth felt invincible. They were both strong, they had both been dangerous and ruthless, they were even better together than they were apart – so how could anyone dare try and hurt them? They would fix this, she told herself. They would figure something out. The plan could still work. They could have a life. They could survive this.

Just a tiny movement, however, was enough for reality to come spilling back in. Turning her head to kiss his forearm, Ruth caught sight of the clock sitting on her bedside table and realised with a start that it was already tomorrow. Two minute past midnight. Two minutes closer to eight hours time, when he would receive a call from the Home Secretary. Two minutes closer to eleven hours time, when he would be taken away into custody, by the Americans.

Her breath caught slightly in her throat, then released again, forming a half-sigh.

Harry twitched against her. Lifting his head from its post-climactic resting place, where he had been silently tracing kisses down her neck, he met her gaze. "Ruth?" he asked, in a voice that was so very much softer than its usual, confident self.

She gave him as best a smile as she could manage.

"It's nothing." Her fingers stroked over the soft flesh of his sides, up to just under his shoulder blades then down again. "That was a hell of a goodbye."

He gave a sad little laugh, pressing his lips back down to her cheek again.

He knew her sigh had been about more than being overcome by the physical sensation of them. He knew what her mind had been dwelling on. He was probably dwelling on the very same thing. Despite the way most his muscles had relaxed against her, a few minutes ago, there was tension along his lower back. His shoulders were a little tight, as well. He was anxious. Scared.

"Harry..." Ruth whispered, running her hands from his sides up to his shoulders, pulling him flush against her. He didn't seem to want to lean all of his weight on her but, after a tug or two, he relented and leant closer, belly pressing down into hers, lowering his head to rest over her shoulder. "It's going to be okay, you know," she told him calmly, though she knew that it wasn't. Tomorrow, they were going to take him away. Tomorrow, they were going to take him away from her and there was nothing she could do to stop it. This goodbye was the only time she would feel him shudder finished inside of her, or see the beautiful abandon in his eyes as he did. He was supposed to be hers. And they were taking him away. What was possibly okay about that? "You're going to be okay," she repeated, anyway.

He remained silent, but shifted slightly, so that their bodies slipped apart – then tightened his arms around her, as if in compensation.

They lay for a moment longer, then his lips parted and he whispered, into her neck; "You know, I don't think there any words, in any language, that describe how little I want to leave you."

Ruth wasn't prepared for the sorrow in his voice and it caused her to start slightly.

"Harry..." she whispered, tightening her fingers against him.

"I really don't want to go."

Shifting sideways, Ruth let them flop over on the mattress so that they were lying side by side. Hushing her lover's words with a hand against his cheek, she leant in close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You don't have to go yet," she told him, then brushed another kiss, softer this time, against his cheek. "You have time."

It felt so strange, thought Ruth, not because they were naked and entwined against each other, but because she had never really been the one to comfort. Through everything they had faced together, Harry had always been the strong one. But he couldn't, tonight. Tonight, she realised, he was grieving the loss of his freedom. He was grieving the loss of her and everything he cared about. He was upset. He was terrified of what would happen once the Americans took him away. Tomorrow, he would wear that impenetrable face – Harry Pearce, unassailable, as if nothing they did could touch him – but, for tonight, she was going to have to be the strong one.

Stroking her thumb across his cheek once more, she wiped away the slight dampness that had collected there. It was no more than one or two tears. Even in this terrible situation, Harry would never allow himself the luxury of crying properly. That's just what he was like. Always the bloody hero, Ruth thought, with a sad sigh. But he was her bloody hero and he had come to her for comfort, so she did not say anything, just leant in and kissed him again. Forehead. Then cheek, then lips.

After a second or two, Harry responded, kissing softly back.

They embraced gently for a minute, before Ruth drew back to speak again.

"I'm glad you came by, tonight," she told him, honestly, with lips that tasted of tear-salt. "I don't know if I could have coped with hearing about this tomorrow."

Harry gave a sigh and cleared his throat. Though the top halves of their bodies were now lying side by side, his legs were still entwined with hers. Shifting one, he pressed a foot over hers. A tiny movement of wordless solidarity.

"I think Towers told me so that I had the chance to run," he eventually told her, voice low and slightly rough with the pain he was holding back.

Ruth shifted her head, angling her face to meet his eyes better, just a few inches away on their pillow. It was almost dark in the room, but she could see the outline of his face, the edge of his cheekbone as it caught the faint light coming in around the cracks in the curtains. Nose, lips, the edge of his ear.

"Towers doesn't know you," she whispered to him. "You'd never run."

Harry smiled. Even through the darkness, she could tell that he smiling. It was a small movement, but one that Ruth had learned well over the years. A creasing around his eyes, a change in his cheek, the slight tightening curve of his mouth. She knew that smile, she knew it like she knew every inch of Harry's face, like she knew every inch of his soul. She might not have known his past, or his secrets, but she knew the man he was and he would never run.

"I did consider it, but only very briefly," he admitted, with a soft clear of his throat. Tears clearing up, thought Ruth, watching him through the dark, pressing her leg a little harder against his. "I don't think I could spend my life running and the only way they would ever stop looking for me was if they knew I was dead. Its the only way you can truly get out, in this business, I suppose." He have a soft, shaky exhaled, then cleared his throat again, voice getting stronger as he did so. "Besides, the Americans would not let it go. They would want their sacrifice. The blame would be passed to Erin, as my second in command, and she has people who depend on her."

As his fingers stroked over her side, Ruth wanted to say that Harry had people, too, but she held her tongue. Harry knew fine well what he was leaving behind. He did not need to hear about the house she had bought for them, or the life they had come so close to having. She wanted to tell him, but he was only just hanging on to his resolve as it was and tonight was her time to be strong. If the situation was different, she thought – if the Americans would let go and Harry could have lived with the fallout – she would have told him, they could have packed their bags tonight, and they could have run away. Forget her job, the house, her plan, her future, she would have run with him for the rest of her life, if he asked her to. But he couldn't, so he didn't need to hear that. Or how close they had come to making it, together. The situation wasn't different. He had to go.

"We'll do everything we can, to get you back," she whispered instead. "The team and me. We'll figure out something. And we'll make sure the peace deal goes ahead, and protect the Gavriks. We'll sort everything out. I promise."

Harry watched her for a long minute, then he propped himself up on one elbow, leaning over her. His fingers stroked back strands of hair from around her face.

"I know you will." He said and kissed her softly, warm palm resting against her cheek. "I trust you."

One or two tears leaked from Ruth's eyes, despite her best attempts to stop them, but Harry just wiped them away. They held close for a very long time, then slowly folded themselves around each other and Harry drifted off into uneasy sleep. Beside him, Ruth lay awake, stroking his hair, his neck, his back – knowing that, when they woke up in the morning, their sanctuary would be broken. He would have to leave and she would have to let him. They might never see each other ever again, so she learned him as thoroughly as she could, soaking up every inch of contact, pressing kisses into his skin when he stirred. This was the only chance she would ever have to comfort and protect him. She was not going to waste it.

.

The sky outside began to get light around ten to seven. Ruth watched its pinkness grow, through the thin fabric of her curtains, spreading across them like ink seeping through water. As the sun came closer to the horizon, pink turned to a soft yellow, then to the white light of the early morning. Beside the bed, the alarm clock ticked closer to seven. Reaching out, Ruth turned it off, just seconds before it rang. That wasn't how she wanted Harry to wake up. Still, he did have to wake. In an hour's time, he had a call to receive at his home. He would want time to shower and change and take care of anything else he needed to do before they took him in, as well. It was not fair to keep him here any longer, despite how much she wanted to.

With a heavy sigh, Ruth leant over, rubbing a hand down Harry's shoulder as he slept next to her.

"Harry," she murmured, pressing a kiss into the crook of his neck. "We have to get up."

He stirred immediately, but it took a minute for his eyes to open fully and for him to realise where he was. At first, he looked a little disorientated, then his eyes fell on her and he visibly relaxed.

"Hello," she retracted her hand, leaning back to put a little distance between them. It was strange, meeting his eyes fully in their current state. Everything they had done last night was in the dark. "It's already seven," she told him, a little shyly.

The soft pleasure in his eyes, to find her wrapped up with him in bed, faded slightly.

"I have to go," he murmured, the fear and loss slipping back into his gaze with each passing second. He lay there for a moment, then rubbed his eyes on the back of one hand. "Phone call, Towers, state secrets in the garden, etcetera."

She nodded.

They lay for a minute longer, watching each other, then Harry sighed and began to slowly extricate himself from their sheets. As he slipped out of bed and pulled on pants and trousers, Ruth sat up, pulling her duvet around herself protectively. She watched him dress and then come over to the side of her bed, offering her the dressing gown off the back of her door. It was odd, she mused, as she accepted it with a soft kiss. This should have felt odd. This should have felt awkward and strange. Instead, however, once she had got over the initial strangeness of them being able to see each other fully, in the light of day, it felt completely natural. New, but natural. Or, perhaps, that was just that the ache of him having to leave overpowering all of her other emotions. Perhaps there was no room for awkwardness, in loss.

Pulling her dressing gown tight around her, Ruth let Harry help her out of bed. She let him keep holding her hand, even once she was standing firmly on her own two feet. Stepping over, she let him pull her closer and bury his face into her hair, breathing her in. Knowing it was what he needed, right now, she wrapped her arm around his back and held him close while the seconds dragged by into minutes. After two or three, he let out a small sigh and muttered, "I really do have to go," against her forehead, sealing the grudging sentence with a kiss.

"I know," she murmured back.

She followed him down the stairs and through to her kitchen, watching as he looked over the things he had given her last night and the empty bottle of white burgundy on the coffee table in the living room next door. She held her inner sorrow back as he pulled on his coat and shoes and returned to her side, minus the bag he had come with, minus a little bit of the sureness she was so used to seeing in his eyes.

"I suppose this is it, then," she said, as they stood in the doorway to her living room, him on the hall side, half turned towards the door.

"I suppose it is."

"I'll try to be at the handover," she told him, wondering what state she would be in, wondering if she could really do this all again. "I think Towers will let me come." A pause, then. "And, if he doesn't, I'll come anyway."

Harry nodded, looking trapped.

Taking a steadying breath, Ruth stepped up to him and, standing on her toes, pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. A goodbye kiss.

"I'll try and not let the side down, when they take you away." she offered, a half-hearted attempt at humour, to scare away her imminent tears.

"It is supposed to be the first you're meant to hear of it," Harry conceded.

"Exactly."

She kissed him softly again, to hide the trembling in her lip, then ran her thumb along his cheek. Harry's hand tightened against her back, pulling her just a little closer, and they stood that way for a while. Resting her cheek against his, Ruth took the moment to steady herself, praying for strength from whatever gods or monsters there were up there, controlling the fate of her and Harry's universe. Just let him be fine, she whispered to herself, just let him be fine and let me see him one last time and then do what you will with me. That's all I want, she pleaded, just to see him again.

Beside her, Harry pulled her a little closer, body tight and anxious.

"I'm not sure I can do this," he whispered, hurriedly. "If you say goodbye, I'm not sure I can walk out that door."

Ruth swallowed hard, trying not to give in to the urge to cry and beg him to stay. She had to be the strong one now, because Harry had to leave. He would never forgive himself if he let this come anywhere near the rest of the team and he didn't want to spend his life running. He needed to go.

"Then I won't say goodbye," she told him, calmly, leaning back as she ran her fingers one more time over his cheek, memorizing the texture of his skin, memorizing all of the shades of hazel in his eyes. "We can just pretend you're away to a meeting and I'll see you later, on the Grid."

A tiny shadow of a smile ghosted across his face.

"Just pretend? Is it really that simple, Ruth?"

"Yes." She tried a smile back. "We're good at pretending, us spooks."

His eyes warmed considerably and he nodded.

"I suppose we are."

A long silence fell between them.

Ruth leant in, kissing him one last time, then drawing back to stand a foot away. Taking a steadying breath, she braced herself for what would have to be considered a performance of a lifetime. Letting him walk away was the very last thing she wanted to do, but it was exactly what she had to allow. Harry had to go. She had to stay. It was harsh and cruel and mind-numbingly sad, but it was simple.

"I'll see you later, Harry," she whispered.

He nodded.

They stood watching each other for a few seconds longer, then he turned and walked down the hall, sliding the deadbolt free and opening the door. As the cool October morning air slipped into the hall around him, he glanced back at her, still standing near the living room door, watching him. Ruth tightened her folded arms, around her middle. Every inch of her wanted to say goodbye, or cry out for him to stay. But she couldn't. She had to let him go. She had to be the strong one.

Their gaze held for a very long minute.

"I love you," he said softly. Then, turning on his heel, he set off down the garden path, pulling the door to behind him.

Ruth listened until his footsteps faded, then she let herself lean against the wall of her hallway and wept.

.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N – My deepest thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this little piece. It's been a pleasure to see people getting enjoyment out of something I've enjoyed writing so much, myself. I can only apologise for the length of time between this and the last post. Long explanation cut short, real life intervened. __One last note; those who are looking for an alternative, happier ending (post 10.6) should go on to read 'Sweet Redemption', which serves as the epilogue I had originally intended for this fic. Both posts could, technically, slot in around the canon story, but 'sweet redemption' is definitely for the more hopeful amongst us. Enjoy.__ -Silver._

_Set during season 10, episode 6_

.

_Chapter 13_

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The real world was not like the world in her books. There was no sudden revelation in the final moments. There was no summing up of everything that had happened between Ruth and the man who cradled her gently to him. Moments trickled away without thoughts. Thoughts whirred by without any time seeming to pass at all. The side of his hand brushed, shaking, against her face and she gasped for breath, shaking, below him. Just touch my face, she thought silently, as he hovered centimetres away from her skin. Just touch me. Never mind the blood.

Her blood. Her blood.

It was her blood.

It hurt a lot less than she thought it would. It was not really sore at all really; just an ache where the glass had slid inside of her, just rushing in her ears, like that dizzying feeling before a faint overtook her. She had fainted before, in stress, in illness, in injury. This would be the same, she thought, feeling her skin cool as blood rushed inwards. Back to her abdomen and chest. Back to her heart and away from her extremities. She was losing feeling in her toes. Her legs felt too cold and weak to move. Empty, somehow, as if they had been drained of all blood and life.

Above her, Ruth saw Harry talking to the others. No, not talking. Shouting, calling for someone to hurry up. Watching him – because everything further away had begun to fade, with her failing eyesight, and what else would she want to watch anyway but Harry – she could see the desperation in his eyes. She wanted to whisper to him not to worry. She wanted to draw him close and comfort him like she had done the other night. It was going to be all right, after all. It was just a collapsed lung. She had seen it happen to field agents before. All she had to do was not panic. All she had to do was keep calm and let Harry keep pressure on the wound to stem the bleeding. The faintness was just lack of oxygen.

Except her side was very wet. Very wet. And she was very cold. And, deep down, she knew this was more than just a punctured lung...

The fear refused to take hold, however, as Harry turned his eyes back towards her. Harry was here. It couldn't be all bad. Ruth tried a smile, tried to make him look a little less terrified. It's going to be okay, she tried to tell him with her eyes, because her breaths felt far too short to force out words. She was going to be okay – they were going to be okay – they always were, weren't they? They were Ruth and Harry and they always survived, at the end of all the horror. Just wait, my love, she whispered in her mind. This too will pass. And, however it did, at least she had got to see him again, one last time.

That was what she had prayed to herself, that morning that he had left her bed to hand himself over to his enemies. She had prayed to see him again. She could remember closing her eyes and kissing him and praying those words. Perhaps she should have wished for more, she thought, now, as her breaths began to quicken and shallow. Perhaps she should have asked for a miracle.

Harry leant in again, closer to her. Ruth's hand, half-raised at her side, fell against the side of him. His jacket was thick, but she could feel the warmth underneath and the thought brought back so many memories. Glancing brushes as they handed over files, his fingers just touching against hers. Tentative half-touches as they sat next to each other on park benches, or in briefings. The electric heat of proximity as they stood nearby, on the Grid, or on the rooftop. So many places but always together. Always together. They spent so much of the last few years of their lives together. There were so many moments and so many places that she would never look at again without thinking of them. So many memories.

_Harry_...

She dizzily tried to reach up to him, but only managed to close her fingers against the side of his jacket.

He gave a distraught little glance down at her hand, then leant closer.

He was searching for something else to talk to her about, Ruth could tell. As the rapid beating of her heart seemed to falter suddenly, rapidly decelerating in her chest, she looked up and tried to show him with her eyes that they had already shared everything that was important to hear. She had told him about her life, the plan of a life she had made for them. She had explained why it was she had left and why the secrets and things she had considered a problem, in the past, were no longer relevant to them now. As she had lain in his arms, wondering why time was jumping so quickly between slow and fast, she had told him about her house. Between her steadily more painful breaths, she told him about the green door and the bedrooms – and how she had only ever wanted a house and a life like that if he was in it.

There were many more things she would have liked to say, too. She would have liked to tell him that she was so proud of him, for what he had done for her and the Service and the country. She would have liked to tell him not to be scared of the turmoil and the doubt that roiled inside of him, because it meant he was still human inside, it meant he still cared. She would have wanted to tell him that he was the single most brilliant man she knew, and that when he kissed her she felt like something whole again, and that if she had to choose between dying here in his arms and living somewhere else, that she would chose here every single time. She would have wanted to tell him – one more time – that she loved him and that none of the else mattered. But she did not need to say any of it out loud.

Harry knew, she told herself, as the rushing in her head became almost unbearable and the aching in her abdomen began to fade. Harry knew how she felt and he knew why she had done what she had done. He would blame himself for it later. He would be angry at her, for having stepped into the line of fire, but he would eventually forgive her because he knew why she had done it. They were Ruth and Harry. They had vowed to protect and defend. They had each other's backs. It is what they had been doing for years. There had not been even a shadow of a doubt in her mind, as she had stepped in front of that knife. It had all been gloriously clear, thought Ruth, as a strange ringing started in her ears. They were Ruth and Harry. They defended and protected what they loved. And they loved each other.

She was not sorry for what she had done. Even though the strange fading sensation in her limbs told her that this situation might not end as well as she thought it was going to.

A little flicker of fear rose up within her but Harry's eyes caught hers again and it refused to catch.

Harry was here. Whatever happened was going to be okay. Harry was here and holding her side, her fingers interlaced with his, interlaced with blood. His other hand on her cheek, against her head, stroking through her hair with all the tenderness he had lavished on her the other night in her quiet bedroom.

The wind whipped around them.

It was so cold, but Ruth could not feel it so well anymore.

"Harry," she said his name, softly, suddenly realising that there was actually one thing she wanted to tell him, one thing he might not already know. In just the last second, it had come to her, upon a strange wave of resignation and gentle calm. "We weren't meant to have those things," she forced out, between breaths that were coming faster even though her heart was suddenly slowing in her chest – even though the pulse which had been pounding in her ears had begun to slow to a gentle rush.

_We weren't meant to have those things. _

People like them were meant to die alone at the end of it all. They were meant to be swept off and disappeared, in some dark shadowy corner of the world – like she had thought Harry's fate would be when she allowed him to walk away from her, into the arms of the Americans, yesterday morning on the Southbank.

...But that wasn't her fate. She wasn't to die alone, in a cell of some foreign intelligence agency, or at the hands of a gunman, or even alone in a cottage at the end of her life – alone by default, by being the last one standing. She was dying in the arms of the man she loved, with the few people in the world who really knew her gathered nearby. She was dying, she knew that deep down, but she was not alone. Harry was here and the team were here. And she would rather be dying here, with them, than anywhere else in the world.

Harry looked up, begging the others for help.

They had none to give.

Ruth inhaled sharply, trying to say his name again, trying to draw his attention back down. She wasn't done. She wasn't finished saying what she wanted, but suddenly time was against her. Her heart was so slow; barely there, in her chest and her neck, where it had throbbed so viciously just moments ago. Her breaths, which should have been such a natural movement – something she had been doing since the day she was born – suddenly seemed to take all the effort in the world. She was so incredibly, incredibly tired. She just wanted to pull Harry down beside her and feel his skin against hers. And just sleep. Just rest. All of it was over. Harry was going to leave the service, with her. He loved her and no one else. The operation was over, the Russian agent was blown, and he was going to come home with her. To their life.

Their life. Their home. Hers and Harry's.

She just wanted to sleep.

Her eyes fluttered half closed. Her heart gave a strange sensation, as if things were surging backwards rather than forwards. Everything suddenly felt calm and incredibly close. As Harry's fingers trailed down the side of her face, across her temple, she could feel every ridge of his fingerpad. The strands of hair which he brushed against her face were infinitely detailed in texture – their shape oval in cross section rather than round and slightly rough from the cold wind. She could smell the earthy smell of the ground, the sweeter one of grass and the metallic sting of her own blood amidst it all.

Harry was the only source of heat. Around her, the world was windy and wild and cool on her cheeks. Her own body was cooling. Her own body was rapidly shrinking inwards until everything, including her vision, started to blur. It did not panic her, however. What was out there, beyond the blur of a foot or so away, didn't seem so important. Her lids fluttered open and closed.

Harry was there.

Harry had her.

_We were not meant to have those things..._

"We are lucky," she whispered, feeling her lips move, though she wasn't sure any sound ever left them. "Love you," she tried, and only the faintest shadow of the words formed on her lips this time. It was okay, though, she told herself. Harry knew.

Her eyes slipped closed. Her skin was tingling, heart suddenly motionless inside of her chest and everything around her seemed incredibly still. So incredibly still. For just a few seconds, she felt it all – felt everything – around her. She felt Harry's fingertips, his whispered words, his head, all of the touches they had shared in the past, the present and the future. She felt it all and then it began to tip back away from her, vanishing like smoke into air. Everything was falling back, falling in, but it did not feel how she was expecting it to fee. She did not feel like being torn away from anything. There was no trepidation. A little fear, yes, but it was countered by relief.

As she let herself fall asleep, it felt like sinking into Harry's arms – like that beautiful moment when she had finally relented to it all and let him hold her. Whatever happened, he was here now. Letting out a slow breath, Ruth let herself relax, her fingers falling free of Harry's side. Her body was still and there was nothing left in the world but the feel of Harry's cheek against hers. He was here, now. Whatever happened, he was safe and they were together. That was all that mattered.

She loved him. So much.

Around them, the wind carried on, regardless.

.

_FIN_

_._


End file.
